Unfinished Business
by jojospn
Summary: Sam and Dean run in to a few enemies from the past. Enemies who have some unfinished business. Now the brothers must struggle with not only Sam's increasingly devastating bouts of insomnia, but with the two bent of finishing the job once and for all. SPOILERS for "Dark Side of the Moon" and most of season 7 Possible Hurt!Sam and/or Dean. Very likely in fact.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: DISCLAIMER: I do not own **_**Supernatural**_**, or any of the characters. All credit goes to Kripke and the amazing talent behind the show. Written as a request from mandancie. Hope you enjoy!**

**Chapter 1**

Roy sat nervously in the booth, nursing a cup of coffee (which had, no doubt, been sitting in its pot for hours, considering the fact that it tasted like shit, but hell, it was hot and wet, as his Momma used to say). He'd been sitting in the diner for what seemed like hours, ordering cup after cup of the liquid sludge and ignoring the glare from the server, who was no doubt waiting impatiently for him to get his ass out of the diner, or at least order something worth more than a buck seventy-five. Hell, he _wanted_ to get out of the joint. If the food was anything like the coffee, after all, it wouldn't be worth five two goddamned cents let alone two fucking dollars. But he had a job to do. Walt had seen to it that Roy finishes what they had started.

xxx

It was supposed to have been over by now. He and Walt had killed the Winchesters, gunned them down in their motel beds. Well, Walt had. The other hunter had not only emptied his shotgun into little Sammy's chest, but big brother Dean's too. Roy had never wanted to see Dean die. It was Sam who had kick started the apocalypse when he had broken that final seal, not Dean. The older Winchester had done nothing to deserve being murdered in his damn bed. And to top it off, he knew damn well that once other hunters knew that Dean Winchester had been killed in cold blood, others, especially that old coot Bobby Singer, would come a'runnin'. Something that Roy wanted to avoid like the fucking _plague._

But Walt had insisted that he shoot Dean too. After all, he _had_ just witnessed the death of his beloved Sammy, and in such a horrible way. He knew that if the hunters had left the elder brother alive, they would regret it for the rest of their lives. And he was right, Roy knew that. There was no way in hell that he would have liked spending the rest of his miserable excuse of a life hiding from the man who had sworn to protect his little brother at all costs. But he couldn't do it. He just couldn't pull that trigger. And Walt, impatient with his partner's hesitation, had solved _that_ problem mighty quickly.

But, by some miraculous reason, the Winchesters had been resurrected, brought back from the dead for what seemed like the hundredth time. At first, he and Walt had been not only confused, but scared shitless at this startling revelation. Something incredibly powerful must have done the deed, brought life back into their lungs; the work no less than a mighty demon, one perhaps as powerful as Lilith herself had been, if not more. It didn't take the two men to realize that the Winchesters had yet another powerful ally on their side: angels. _Angels, _for god's sake! A bit of research revealed the celestial being to be one Castiel, one who ultimately became quite fond of the brothers (Dean, in particular). In short, to try to kill the Winchesters would prove to be a useless endeavor. Why bother trying to take down someone when a goddamned _angel_ would be able to bring them back with the touch of a finger?

But further research concluded that the brother's feathery friend was out of commission, presumed dead. In other words, the perfect opportunity for him and Walt to finish what they had started.

xxx

After what seems like hours, Roy hit the jackpot. The familiar coal black Impala parks practically in front of the window where the hunter is just finishing up his latest cup, and the men of the hour wearily climb out. The brothers looked exhausted, but Roy noticed that Sam, especially, looked like hell frozen over. Roy watched from the corner of his eye as the two men walked right past his booth, not even noticing as he quickly reached for a menu and pretended to look through it. When he felt that his cover has not been broken, he tossed the laminated booklet aside and watched as the brothers picked up their own copy and scanned through, Dean surprisingly not bothering to flirt with the hot server who took their order. Roy pulled out his cell phone, eyes darting around him nervously despite the fact that there was technically nothing odd about a man placing a call in a public establishment.

"Yeah?" Walt's voice was gruff on the other end of the line.

"Found them. Eating supper at _Frank's Diner_ in Milwaukee."

"Good. Don't let them out of your goddamned sight."

"Yessir." Roy pressed end on his phone and tossed it on the table. When the same pretty girl who served the Winchesters came back with the coffee pot, he declined and ordered a Bud. He slowly sipped his beer, and had ordered another, by the time the brothers finally signaled for their check and grabbed their coats. Not about to let the Winchesters slip away again, Roy signaled for his own, tossed a handful of crumpled bills on the table, and followed the brothers out the front door, ensuring to stay a few paces behind, so as not to draw suspicion. Ducking behind the shadows, Roy climbed into his rusty pick-up, waited until the Impala disappeared around the bend, and gunned his own.

He had work to do.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N. I do not own **_**Supernatural**_** or any of its characters. For entertainment purposes only.**

**Chapter 2**

Dean glanced worriedly in the rear-view as he pulled away from the diner. From the moment he and Sam had set foot in the restaurant, alarm bells had been going off in his head. Of what, he wasn't sure, but he knew something wasn't right. And with Sammy out of it, Lucifer's hallucinations beginning to take their toll and depriving the young man of sleep, Dean knew that he wouldn't have his kid brother at his back. Fuck, he needed his brother back. For a moment, he indulged himself in self-pity, remembering the hunts of yesteryear, before the demon deals and Lilith and the goddamned apocalypse itself. What had happened to the simple life, of ganking evil sonsofbitches, rigging games of pool, cruising in the Impala for days on end just to catch a ballgame? Now, there life revolved around angels, demons, the devil himself…

Dean quickly snapped out of his reverie when he heard Sam's low moan riding shotgun. Dean stole a glance at his brother, who was oblivious to the scrutiny, and turned the key in his beloved car's ignition. "Damn it, Sammy," he muttered. "You gotta let me help you, man." As expected, Sam gave no reply. Sighing, Dean stole another glance in the rear-view; the decrepit pick-up was still following the brothers, albeit at a safe distance. Or, what would have been considered so for anyone who didn't hunt supernatural baddies for a living. Again, Dean felt his hunter instincts kicking in and he gave a slight push on the gas, the speedometer on the mighty car creeping up slightly.

Someone was following the Winchesters; there was no doubt in Dean's mind. Only one nagging question tugged on his brain as he manoeuvered the Impala along the secluded, winding stretch of highway at ridiculous speeds: who? Mentally Dean tried to calculate who could be on their hit list: Lucifer was (supposedly) still in the cage; the archangels were dead. And even if Cas were still alive, he would not be tailing them in some redneck pick-up. No, the angel would pop in some random, completely inappropriate time, startling and thoroughly embarrassing both of the brothers, especially Dean. Crowley perhaps? But the suave King of Hell would no doubt find a classier method to stalk his prey.

Dean continued to drive in silence, alternating anxious glances between the headlights of his pursuer and the practically catatonic man in the passenger seat. Occasionally Sam would let out a wounded moan, and press at the scar on his palm for dear life. Poor kid must be having another hallucination. Sammy had always had the short end of the stick, even for Winchester standards. It was a wonder the kid had kept his sanity for this long. The young hunter sighed, stole another glance behind him.

He was alone.

"Sonofabitch," Dean muttered under his breath, at last beginning to ease up on the car's speed. It was more than likely that the one tailing the Winchesters had at last caught on that he had been spotted, and had backed off. This revelation did little to comfort Dean and for the remainder of the drive, he felt more than a little uncomfortable. The rest of the trip to the boys' cheap motel was uneventful, save for the few grunts from Sam when his brother tried to instil some form of conversation. The younger Winchester seemed to be more cognisant than when they were at the crappy diner (there, the man had barely spoken and only picked at his grilled salmon salad), and even offered a few quick responses, but was hardly a great road companion, and Dean finally gave up, switching on the radio to the local rock station. He still felt uneasy, that hunter's radar nagging him like an infected tooth, but the silence was driving him near mad. Finally, after another ten minutes of unease despite the classic rock, Dean guided the Impala into the parking lot of yet another seedy motel. He glanced warily at his brother, who was mechanically climbing out of the passenger side and following his brother to the trunk to grab his duffle. Dean watched the performance and sighed.

It was going to be a long night.

Xxx

Roy had never been an expert at tailing, there was no doubt about that. Despite being a good hunter (though not nearly as good as those goddamned Winchesters), tracking humans had never been his forte. Give him a ghoul, spirit, anything that went bump in the night, and there was no problem. His instincts would kick in, and that, well, whatever the fuck it was, would be dead in no time. But to follow humans, especially the kind that tend to, well, defy the natural order, _that_ was a different story. In the end, Roy had had to pull onto a side road for a moment or two, give the Winchesters that false sense of security, before going back on the tail. It was a huge risk, but one he would have to take.

"Shit," he had mumbled to himself as he had eased his truck on a gravel road. The hunter had waited as long as he possibly could, cursing himself as the minutes ticked away, before finally shifting the vehicle in reverse and backing back on to the highway. He could hear Walt now, cursing at his accomplice's amateurish stalking skills (or lack of): _What the fuck is wrong with you boy? You can't kill the ones who jumpstarted the damned apocalypse and you sure as hell can't tail someone if your goddamned life depended on it!_ Roy sighed, trying to ignore Walt's criticisms (even if they were in his subconscious), while keeping his eyes peeled for the Impala.

He had almost missed it. Roy had just barely passed the _Bluebird Motel_ when a quick glance in the rear-view caught his attention: a young man rummaging in the trunk of his car: a car that looked, even under the dim light of the street lamp, a vintage Chevrolet. Roy drove about a kilometer further, parked along the side of the road, killed the engine. He would have to go the rest of the way on foot.

xxx

Dean locked the door behind him, wearily making his way to his bed, casually allowing his duffle to fall at his feet. Beside him, Sam was already rummaging through his, looking for a clean pair of boxers, his stare still blank as he casually tossed the unwanted garments aside. Despite his exhaustion and that nagging worry that someone had been tailing them on the way home from the diner, Dean had an even greater concern for his brother's wellbeing. It seemed that every day Sam was looking worse, as if some dilapidating disease was eating away, constantly sucking the life from him until he was nothing. The thought of Sam in such a condition was too much for Dean to bear.

"Hey, Sammy, you feelin' ok? You're looking a little green. Something in that salad you were eating?" Trying so hard to be joking, making light of the situation. Not because he thought so little about what his brother was going through, but because he was so goddamned worried. It had always been Dean's method of coping, to laugh in the face of danger and despair. Hell, that year when Lilith had held his ticket downstairs, he had been a cocky smartass, hiding his intense fear with humour and bravado. And Sam had called him out on it too, on more than one occasion. Dean wished that his brother would do that now, but was disappointed by the younger Winchester's curt reply.

"I'm fine. Just need to find my boxers…"

"No Sam, you're _not_ fine." Dean closed his eyes for a moment, feeling like the world's greatest hypocrite. After all, he had said those exact words to his brother that final year, on more times than he could count on both hands. And yet, there he was, telling his brother that he needed help. "Look man, you've hardly touched anything you've eaten, you've slept maybe two hours a night, three tops, you look like shit…"

"Dean, I said I'm fine! Back off!"

Dean flinched at his brother's harsh tone. It was true that he had used those very words when Sam had been nagging him, but to hear it from Sammy, his baby brother, it was too much. The older Winchester sighed, leaning down to take off his boots. Sam, meanwhile, continued to search his duffle bag until he at last found a clean pair of boxers and started towards the shower. A moment later, Dean heard the sound of water running, and gave up the impromptu intervention. Sam, after all, was a Winchester: meaning, he was stubborn as hell. And who was he to talk anyway? Stubborn was practically Dean's middle name. Too tired to go press the issue further, Dean leaned back on his bed, fully clothed, with the intention of resting a moment before having his own hot shower. When Sam returned ten minutes later, his brother was passed out, uncovered. The younger brother glanced at Dean with a hint of jealousy. At least he had been lucky enough to fall asleep; Sam couldn't remember the last time he had slept soundly, without his slumber being plagued by memories of Hell, the flames, the torment and torture. But worst of all were the incessant naggings from Lucifer, always with that smug grin on his face, eyes gleaming in malicious delight. Night after night, and sometimes during the day, the devil would be present, taunting him, causing him to question his very sanity. _You look like shit, Sam?_ You try having the devil ride shotgun in your head twenty-four fucking seven!

Sam sighed wearily as he collapsed on his bed, willing himself to fall asleep, and already hearing Lucifer's overly cheerful voice as he sang "The Devil Went Down to Georgia", always annoyingly loud. "Get the fuck out of my head," he moaned, pressing at the scar on his palm so tightly, he opened the wound and drew fresh blood. Of course, Lucifer paid no heed to Sam's request, revelling in the sadistic pleasure he got from torturing the boy. With a moan, Sam covered his face with his pillow, wishing, despite his brother's expected pleas otherwise, that he was dead.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I do not own Supernatural, or any of the characters. For entertainment purposes only. Please read and review, I love to hear your comments! They're very inspirational! And I can take criticism, as long as it's constructive and not malicious. Enjoy!**

**Chapter 3**

"Well, did you find them?"

Walt's curt voice was the first thing Roy heard as he wandered into the motel room, sometime around three that morning. The hunter glared at his partner, tossing the keys to his piece of shit pick-up and a grease ridden take-out bag on the nearby nightstand. "Fuck, Walt, can't you give me a damned minute?"

Walt returned the stare as Roy casually tossed his cot on a chair and pulled a thick burger from the paper bag, holding it out to his partner. Walt held his icy gaze and Roy shrugged, as if to say _suit yourself,_ before plopping the sandwich on the nightstand and pulling out his own. He unwrapped it, relished in the first, rather enormous bite, and swallowed it with piss warm beer. Walt watched the entire performance, impatient. _Goddamned glutton, thinking only of his stomach…_

Finally, Roy finished his late supper and crumpled the greasy wrapper and fry container in the now empty bag. He knew damn well that he was taking his sweet ass time answering Walt, but the way the other hunter had been acting around him lately, Roy felt he had good reason to leave the guy hanging. Hell, from the looks of the way little Sammy looked like an extra from _The Walking Dead,_ he had a pretty good feeling that the Winchesters wouldn't be going anywhere any time soon. Roy looked up, and Walt's face was the epitome of rage and hatred. Fuck, he was an asshole.

"There at the _Bluebird Motel._ Room 17. And like I said earlier, Sam looks like he has one foot in the goddamned grave, if you ask me." Roy watched as Walt finally sat up from the bed, reached for his now cold burger, and began to chew methodically. Slightly disturbed by his partner's reaction, Roy continued. "Knowing his brother, I bet the Winchesters have a feeling something's going on. You know who their daddy was, after all. So even though I have a feeling Dean won't be eager to leave ASAP, I'd bet my ass they won't be staying there long."

"Wait, was Winchester on to you?" Walt dropped his half eaten burger on the already badly stained rug, anger flashing in his cold, grey eyes. Roy flinched as Walt lowered his voice to barely a whisper: "How the fuck did the Winchesters catch on to what was going on? Did they spot you tailing them?"

"Well, their daddy _was _John Winchester…" Roy struggled to come up with a somewhat believable excuse. He had known Dean had caught him tailing them earlier that night. Granted, he had probably no knowledge who the driver was, but the fact that he had noticed something in the first place was enough to send off Dean Winchester's "danger radar".

"They saw you, didn't they? Fuck Roy…" Walt trailed off, head in his hands. Roy watched in silence, awaiting the inevitable shit storm. Instead, the outraged hunter sat up and rummaged through his duffle until he found his 12 gauge. He quickly loaded the weapon, grabbed his jacket, and headed out the door, Roy tagging along like a wounded animal. Moments from that morning two years earlier flashed before his eyes.

_Roy has the gun on Dean, his finger hovering near the trigger. The elder Winchester stares coldly back at him, a look of hatred in his green eyes. Beside Dean, Sam lays on his bed, his chest riddled from the bullets that had just moments ago been fired from Walt's weapon. Roy knows he has to kill Dean, hell, his brother is lying there, dead as the proverbial doornail, and if the older brother still draws breath, both he and Walt are gonna permanently be on his shit list. Not something he particularly would want. But on the other hand, Dean had done nothing wrong. It was Sam who had jump started the apocalypse, who had started this whole mess when he hooked up with that demon bitch…_

Roy shuddered as he grabbed his keys and followed Walt out the door. _Whoever said history repeats itself wasn't kidding._

xxx

Dean couldn't shake that feeling that something terribly wrong was about to happen. Tossing uncomfortably on his bed, the young man struggled to calm down, to try to get some sleep. But he just had that gut feeling, and one thing Dean Winchester could always count on was his instinct.

Initially, Dean had fallen asleep quickly, despite his worry for his brother and that sinking feeling that he was being watched. Peaceful slumber, however, had been short lived, and after only a few hours of restless tossing and turning, Dean had awakened to find Sam sleeping fitfully on the bed beside him. _Finally,_ Dean thought, listening to his brother as he tossed restlessly and moaned from beneath the covers. The kid may have been asleep, but it was obvious that it was not a restful one.

That had been a few hours ago. Now Dean was sitting up in his bed, eyes piercing the darkness. It was a habit he had acquired as a boy, listening for the sounds of something, _anything,_ that was not familiar: the unfamiliar gate of someone other than their father at the door; the rustling of supernatural creatures outside the window, the telltale static and electrical hums of a vengeful spirit. Now, when Dean heard the soft sound of someone trying desperately to mask their footsteps, he was at full alert, reaching for his gun. Heart pounding, Dean switched off the safety and positioned himself where he would be behind the door when it opened. Immediately he realized that his hunter's instinct had been right all along, that someone, or some_thing_ had been tailing them since leaving that crappy diner hours earlier. Dean waited, with baited breath, as the footsteps approached, closer until they, as expected, halted before the door to the brothers' room. Then, the familiar rattle as someone jimmied the doorknob, picking at the lock.

_Dumbass,_ Dean thought to himself. _Trying to get through the front door, amateur. _Sure enough, the clicking eased and there was a creak as the intruder slowly turned it and pushed the door open. _Come on_, _you sonofabitch. I'm waiting for you._

The door opened wider and a shadowy figure entered the room, armed with a shotgun or rifle, his eyes trying to adjust to the darkness. Quietly, Dean made his way from his hiding place and aimed his weapon at the back of the stranger's head. "Surprise," he smirked, cocking his weapon. Slowly, the intruder lowered his weapon; it took Dean a second to realize that it wasn't really natural for someone with a gun to lower it that quickly, and without any prompting. He knew that he was in trouble when he saw the other guy from the corner of his eye; Dean knew that he had to react, to use one of his fancy evasive maneuvers and knock the shit out of the doucebag behind him, but it was too late. Before he had any time to react, Dean felt the sharp pain as a hard object was bludgeoned against his skull.

And then everything went black.

xxx

When Dean came to about twenty minutes later, he found himself with a splitting headache and his limbs secured to a wooden chair. Squinting in the now brightly lit room, the older Winchester automatically tried to reach to massage his pounding temple, forgetting temporarily about his restraints and cursing when he remembered. For a moment, he felt a strong urge to vomit, but mercifully the need to throw up his supper passed within a few moments. He heard Sam struggling beside him, and immediately felt a surge of relief rush over him; at least Sammy was OK.

Dean's thoughts were interrupted by a gruff voice.

"About damn time. Thought I was gonna have to kill ya while you were out cold. Now where's the fun in that?"

And Dean's heart sank as he recognized the voice of the man before him, a twelve gauge aimed directly at his heart.

xxx

**September 15, 2004**

**San Fransisco, California**

Dean downed his sixth whiskey while flirting with the hot redhead behind the bar, flashing his trademark cocky grin. It never failed to attract the ladies, that Winchester charm which his father had passed on to him but seemed to pass completely by his lanky, nerdy kid brother. It didn't take much; a little wink, a charming one liner, that smile which seemed to drive the ladies wild. And tonight was no exception. Karla was the third young lady to willingly provide Dean her phone number, with a little wink of her own and a promise that her shift would be over in an hour if you didn't mind waiting a bit, sweetie. Dean had simply nodded, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. Hunting was the family business, but "all work and no play make Dean a dull boy."

That night, however, Dean would have been forced to stand up three gorgeous young ladies; for at that moment, John Winchester walked in, two complete strangers tagging along behind. And judging by the glares from all three, the trio were not on friendly terms. Dean watched as the three walked to a booth in the farthest corner of the bar and ordered drinks, and eventually slid off the bar stool, in hopes of finding a spot close enough to keep his cover, but still catch snippets of conversation.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" John hissed to one of the men, hardly touching his beer. "Your carelessness could have gotten all three of us killed! Who taught you how to clean a damn gun in the first place?"

One of the strangers leaned in on his elbows, eyes filled with hatred. "You call me careless? Who was it who got Will Harvelle killed, huh? So who's the careless one now?"

For a moment, John lowered his head in shame. It was true, his poor judgment had resulted in the death of his good friend: had left Ellen without a husband and young Jo without a father. For a moment, he said nothing, and the other hunter smiled smugly. But after a while, another voice spoke up.

"Yeah, Walt, Winchester did fuck up when he got Walt killed, but we did too just now." The man was silenced by an icy glare, and the other man downed a quarter of his beer in awkward silence. After a few moments, John finally spoke up.

"You're right. I did kill Will. I'll regret that for the rest of my goddamned life. But I have _never_ gone on a hunt with a jammed gun. It's a wonder we're still standing for Christ's sake."

"Look man, I just told you we fucked up," the other guy hissed, and the guy named Walt nodded. "We got the vamp nest in the end, didn't we?"

"And you could have easily gotten my son killed in the process."

Dean felt his heart nearly skip a beat at the mention of his brother's name. He leaned in as far as he could, struggling to hear the rest of the conversation amidst the noise from the crowd.

"That vamp was targeting the Stanford campus. There was no guarantee that he was singling out your boy, Winchester."

"If you half-wits had been paying attention, you would have heard that vamp's plans for Sam," John snapped, his voice rising to the point where a few patrons glanced nervously at the three men talking about weird supernatural shit. And at that moment, John spotted his boy, sitting at a nearby table, clearly eavesdropping on his conversation. Without another word, John left the table, an irritated expression on his face. Dean, meanwhile, quickly lowered his, preparing for the impending verbal assault from his dad, the two men with him temporarily forgotten.

xxx

**Present Day**

"Roy? Is that you? Man, you guys never give up, do ya?" Dean flashed another of his smug grins as his eyes focused on the man before him, still brandishing his weapon. Roy shifted uncomfortably, willing himself to stay focused. Beside him, Walt's own weapon was pointed at Sam; for a moment he felt a strong case of déjà vu. This was an almost exactly what had happened that morning two years earlier, when Walt had shot both brothers in their beds. Even the smart-ass grin plastered on Dean's face was almost exactly as it had been all those years earlier. Roy shrugged and pressed the weapon against Dean's chest, the barrel pointed directly at his heart.

"Well, let's just say we have a little unfinished business, shall we?" Roy stole a glance at his hunting buddy, whose aim on Sam was just as deadly accurate. The younger Winchester, however, hardly took any notice to the fact, and was hissing madly, no doubt caught in another hallucination. Unfortunately, with his hands bound securely to the arms of the chair, Sam was unable to find solace in the scar on his palm. Dean watched him anxiously, his expression of bravado gone. His kid brother was in agony, and there was no way to stop it. Unless…

"Look, man." Dean stared into Roy's eyes, this time unable to mask the fear as he had done the last time the brothers were in the two hunter's clutches. "The guy's a wreck. He's having these damned hallucinations or whatever about Hell, and they're getting worse. He's got this scar on his palm, and if he presses his fingers into it, he's fine. But he can't do that if he's tied up. Please, Roy, I'm begging you man, let my brother go."

Dean looked into Roy's eyes, noticed the hesitation in them and immediately felt a glimmer of hope. He remembered that the last time the pair had ambushed them, it had been Walt who had actually pulled the trigger. Either Roy was as junkless as Cas had been, or there was some hint of compassion hiding in that thick skull. What Dean did know was that this was just the leverage he needed to get the pair out of this mess.

"Come on, Roy, the man can't be much of a threat anymore. He's been Lucifer's bitch for months now. Don't you think he's paid enough? Leave him out of this!"

For a moment, Roy hesitated. Walt, as per usual, narrowed his eyes at him, the look clearly stating _if you fuck this up again, it ain't gonna be only the Winchesters dying tonight._ There was no way that Roy's head was going to be on the chopping block. Not tonight, at least.

"The kid kick starts the apocalypse and you think he's gonna get off easy? Fuck no. That's your whole problem, Winchester. Little Sammy can do no wrong. Fuck a demon? No problem. Demon blood junkie? All in a day's work. Initiating the goddamned apocalypse…."

Roy was suddenly interrupted by a head butt. Little did he know that part of Dean's plan had been to distract him while he had carefully loosened himself from his bonds. Now, caught off guard, Dean was able to tackle his foe as easily as, well, taking candy from a baby. Immediately Walt lowered his own weapon, aiming it at the pair fighting on the floor. If it hit Roy, well, no big deal, he was a major fuck up to begin with. But to kill Winchester would be a nice, added bonus. Eyes cold, Walt fired the shotgun; Dean winced as he felt a bullet tear through his shoulder. But still he fought on, until finally he felt another burst of white hot pain as another bullet pierced his abdomen. Sam, apparently free from his latest visit from Lucifer, let out a wounded cry.

"Dean!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Walt quickly drew the gun back on Sam, who was struggling madly to free himself from his bonds.

"Screw you." Sam hissed, spitting in Walt's face. For the first time in days, he felt lucid, his brain free from the shit which had been haunting him hours on end. "If you hurt my brother, I swear to God…"

"You'll what?" Walt laughed malevolently, shoving the barrel of the gun against Sam's bare chest, the cool of the metal making him flinch. "You'll kill me? You pathetic little fool." And without hesitation, Walt slammed the barrel of the gun against Sam's skull and he slipped into the first restful fit of unconsciousness he had had in days.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: First of all, thanks so much for all who took the time to read and/or review. It really makes my day to read all the comments! Please keep 'em coming! Second, as always, I do not own **_**Supernatural,**_** or any of its characters. For entertainment purposes only. Enjoy!**

**Chapter 4**

_Sam is laying on a metal slab, surprisingly cold despite the flames that spiral around him, greedy tendrils dancing around him like bony fingers reaching in for the kill. The heavy chains dig into his flesh, cutting like blunt knives, and Sam winces in pain, his struggles to free himself only making it considerably worse. Before him, Lucifer is smiling, still appearing as that poor sonofabitch Nick, toying playfully with a switch blade. "My my, Sammy boy!" he chides in a sing-song voice. "You really need a haircut!" Laughing in malicious delight, Lucifer grabbsa chunk of Sam's long, brown locks and saws at it, the clump slipping from beneath his fingers and fluttering softly to the fiery ground below. Sam winces as the devil continues with his "grooming" and slowly slides the blade lower, until it presses against his throat. "Looks like somebody needs a shave." Humming to himself, Lucifer slowly, meticulously shaves Sam's thick beard, deliberately nicking his throat in the process, until Sam begins to relax slightly. _Maybe he might leave me alone._ And then, cackling, Lucifer slices off Sam's ear, ignoring the young man's agonizing screams. When he finally slits his throat, Sam has already wished for death…_

xxx

Sam woke up, screaming, sweat pouring from his body. For a moment, he forgot the events which had transpired no doubt only an hour so earlier, and he called out for his brother, expecting to hear the surprised yelp of surprise from one usually startled from deep sleep. But instead, Sam hears nothing. Not even the light snoring coming from the other end of the room.

And then there was the headache. Sam winced in pain, gingerly rubbing his temples as he tried to adjust to his surroundings. After a moment, the young man had determined that he was not in the crappy motel room Dean had checked them into hours earlier (not that he had been with it enough to recognized what it looked like), but in some dingy, circular chamber, similar to the panic room Bobby had kept in his basement. Inside was a cot, secured to the cement floor, a desk and chair, and empty shelves where no doubt books on supernatural lore had been stored at one point. Painted on the floor was a large devil's trap.

"What the hell," Sam moaned, trying to take in his surroundings, listen for any signs that may help him identify his location. Nothing. Just the rustling upstairs of his assailants (he had finally been lucid enough to identify them as Walt and Roy, the bastards who had killed them a few years back. Man, Dean had been _pissed_ when they'd shot him…

_Dean._ Sam's heart nearly stopped as memories from earlier flashed before him. He hadn't remembered much of the ordeal, having been caught in yet another hallucination, courtesy of his pal Luci, but he did remember Dean and Roy fighting on the floor; and the deafening sound of the shotgun blast as Walt fired a few bullets into his brother. Sam felt his heart race at the memory. Was Dean even alive? He had thought that the first wound had been a clean shot, but the second one in the abdomen could prove to be fatal if not properly treated. Dean needed a hospital, but knowing him, he would have ignored his injuries, instead planning a rescue mission. "Damn it, Dean," Sam muttered, burying his face in his hands. For a moment, he sat on the floor, indulging himself in a rare moment of self-pity. And then, he remembered that time years earlier, when he had been abducted by the Benders. He had most certainly not given up then, and now was not the time to start a new trend. His brother needed him. If only he could keep his damn head clear. Insomnia would only intensify the hallucinations, and if there was a time when he needed to keep the damn devil out of his head, it was now.

xxx

Dean awakened, much to his surprise, in a hospital bed. He closed his eyes, trying to figure out how he had gotten there in the first place. There was no damn way Sammy would take him to a damn hospital unless he was one foot in the grave, with the FBI on their damn ass. Goddamn Leviathan. Besides, the kid was hardly with it, there was no way he would have been cognisant enough to lug him in the Impala, drive to the ER, fill out the necessary forms with one of their phony insurance cards…

_Sam!_ Dean felt a surge of panic well in him, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, he fought to suppress the urge to vomit. If Sam hadn't checked him in, then either he was here too, or someone had only found _him_ in that motel room. And that meant that Walt and Roy had left Dean to die and abducted his brother. Without hesitation, Dean ripped out his IV and searched the room anxiously for his clothes. He had to get out of here. His brother needed him.

Xxx

**September 16, 2004**

**San Francisco, California**

"What? Tell me you're kidding, bro."

Sam sat on his uncomfortable bed, eying the door to his cramped dorm room. In any moment, his roommate would be walking in, and the last thing he wanted was for Kyle to overhear a conversation in which the topic was vampires. On the other end of the line, Dean had braked at an intersection, anxiously waiting for the light to turn.

"Wish I was," Dean answered, and eased his foot on the gas as the light flashed green. "But I heard Dad clearly say that there was a vamp nest somewhere near campus, and that the sonofabitch was singling you out. Dad nearly tore me a new one for eavesdropping. And I missed out on banging three ladies last night. _Three._ So you owe me, Sammy!"

Sam sighed. He knew his older brother loved him, and that he was obviously worried about his wellbeing to make the trip to campus, but it was tiresome to hear of the poor ladies he had to stand up, whether he was serious or not. "Can you think of something other than your sex life for a change?"

"What? A man can't have a little fun now and then?" Dean smirked, but immediately was back to business. After all, his brother's life had been at risk not that long ago. And if there was anyone Dean would risk his life for, it was his little brother. It was his job, after all, one that he most certainly did not take lightly, no matter who wanted to spend the night with him.

"Dean, you're hopeless."

"Back to our vamp, turns out he _had_ picked you to be his entrée, but not because of your relation to Dad."

"Then why?"

"Stupid thing, really. Did you cut yourself shaving or something lately?"

"Well, I had tripped on the way back from a night class. Scraped my knee pretty bad. You think our baddy smelled the blood and then marked me for his next meal?"

Dean sighed as he guided the Impala into the lane which led to Stanford's main entrance. "Could be. Never heard of vamp's singling out people that way, but guess there's a first time for anything. Anyways, I'm here bro, I'll be at your dorm in ten. At least if I can figure out where the damn thing is."

Sam couldn't mask the irritation in his voice. "Is that really necessary Dean? I can take care of myself, you know. I've been doing it this long."

"Well, if Dad hadn't been there when that dude Roy's gun jammed, you probably wouldn't be here in the first place." Dean suddenly was quiet at the other end of the line. Sam was just about to hang up, thinking the call had dropped, when his brother spoke up.

"I should've been hunting that nest, Sammy. I was there for godssake! It's my job to keep you safe, and if Dad hadn't been around, and you'd been hurt…" Dean trailed off, but Sam didn't push his brother to continue. He knew about how his brother felt that his safety was his responsibility, and that if something had happened to him, it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

"I should've been there." On the other end of the line, Dean eased the Impala on the side of the drive, rubbing his temple, the humour from earlier long gone. For what seemed like the hundredth time since the incident, Dean ran through the series of _what ifs:_ what if John hadn't been there; what if the vampire had gotten away and killed his brother; what if all three guns had jammed at that moment…

What if Dean had been able to prevent the damn mess from happening in the first place?

"I'm sorry Sammy," he murmured. Snapping the phone closed, Dean eased back into traffic, towards his brother's dorm. He was going to make up to him, whether Sam liked it or not.

xxx

**Present Day**

Dean slipped out of the hospital, cursing that whoever had driven him had forgotten to take the Impala. Not that the guy was a mind reader, but it would have been nice if he didn't have to steal a car to get back to the motel. Wincing in pain, Dean limped out the front door and made his way out of the parking lot. No way he was going to steal a car here.

A half hour later, Dean pulled into the motel, parking beside his baby (_at least those assholes had left his car, no doubt a stupid move on their part_). Dreading what he was about to find, the hunter carefully opened the door, bracing himself for the scene before him. Sure enough, the place was a disaster: chairs overturned, the carpet stained with blood. Judging by the yellow tape fluttering in the breeze outside, the cops had already been here, and had removed the shell casings. Just great. Another heads up for the FBI. Guess he's have to abandon his baby soon, as much as he dreaded the thought.

"Sam?" Dean called his brother's name, even though he knew it would be a useless endeavor. Sure enough, there was no reply, lucid or otherwise. A quick search of the room confirmed what he already knew in his heart: Sam was gone. "Sam! SAMMY!"

No reply.

"Fuck!" Dean kicked at a chair in frustration. His brother was gone, and he had no clue or lead to his whereabouts. He let out another kick for good measure and collapsed on the bed, trying to think. Damn, if only he still had those Roadhouse connections. If only he still had Bobby… For a moment, he almost let a tear slip down his cheek, but he quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand. No time for crying now. For all he knew, Sam was still alive. And to sit here crying wasn't going to do either of them any good.

_Okay Dean, think._ Regaining his composure, the hunter began a more thorough search of the room.

And found the receipt.

It was hiding in a corner. In fact, it was a wonder the cops hadn't missed it themselves. But there it was, announcing that on the night of the abduction, Walt and Roy had been staying at the _Rest Well Inn._ No doubt they weren't staying there any longer, but at least it was a start.

Without hesitation, Dean left the room, pulling his keys from his jeans pocket. He had to find his brother. After all, it _was_ his job.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews and support for this story! It really is greatly appreciated! I also appreciate the patience with the long wait time between chapters. I wish I could update more often, but there just aren't enough hours in the day! Thanks again! And, as always, I do not own **_**Supernatural**_** or the characters.**

**Chapter 5**

He could hear the damn pounding against the steel door all the way upstairs. Clenching his fists in frustration, Roy reached for the remote and turned the volume up on the TV full blast, hoping to drown out the noise. Damn Winchester had been at it for hours now, between the poundings of his body against the panic room door to the yells of anger, always with the line "if you've hurt my brother I'm going to fucking _kill you!"_ On many occasions, Roy could hear screams, and he remembered what Dean had mentioned in that motel room hours earlier: _the guy's a wreck. He's having these damned hallucinations…_ Great. That was all he needed. It was a good thing Walt was on a supply run or the kid would've been wasted by now.

It had surprised Roy initially that Walt had decided to spare Sam. Hell, even though Roy had been hesitant to shoot Dean that fateful morning, he had always been on board with icing Sam. Regardless to the fact that he had, allegedly, done all he could to make things right, there was no denying that initiating Apocalypse had been Sam Winchester's doing. In fact, to kill him now would be almost like an act of mercy. It was obvious the kid was being tormented by the shit that was plaguing his mind, like a parasite. Hell, if he were Sam, he'd be begging for someone to put him out of his damn misery. Besides, the noises from downstairs were getting fucking annoying.

No, what horrified Roy was his partner's sadistic desire to get even with Dean Winchester. The man had clearly threatened to kill him once he came back, and if there was one thing Walt hated more than supernatural shit was to be threatened. What right did that smug sonofabitch have to say such things? If there was anything Walt hated more than the paranormal, it was to have some punk ass insult his intelligence. Roy, of course, had objected to Walt's plan.

"_He just saw his brother die, man."_

"_Yeah, the same brother that fucked up planet Earth as we know it."_

"_Really? You think that you can justify torture because the kid accidently kicked off the end of the world? Yeah, Sam Winchester fucked up, but you have to admit, the kid didn't exactly do it on purpose."_

Roy closed his eyes, remembering Walt's response. He had accused him of being soft, of sympathising with the bastard who had initiated the chaos, had released the damned devil from his cage. In the end, he had given in: "Fine, have your fun. Just don't count me in." Walt had shrugged, obviously not caring, and had gone down to initiate phase one in his plan to get back at Dean Winchester. That had been four hours earlier, and the tortured cries from the man held captive downstairs were enough to make anyone go insane. Because he knew what Walt had planned on telling the young man: that Dean Winchester was dead.

Roy shuddered. He knew what it was like to lose a brother. Years earlier, his own younger brother had died in a tragic car accident, leaving himself to walk away without a scratch. The incident had had nothing to do with the supernatural, but the pain had been all too real. He had been broken, scarred for years, before finally finding at least some sort of peace. And now, to tell the kid that his brother, the ma he would _die _for, was gone… it was too much.

Roy closed his eyes, trying to ignore the agonized screams from downstairs. But not even the sounds of the action movie on TV could drown out the noises which would haunt him for the rest of his life.

xxx

**Four hours earlier**

"You're brother's dead, Sammy. So don't waste your goddamned breath."

Sam felt the air rush from his lungs at Walt's cruel words. He tried to stay calm, to not break down in front of the bastard who had just ended his life as much as the blade back in Cold Oak had. Somehow, he remained calm, his eyes full of hatred as he glared at the man at the door of his iron cell.

"You're lying."

"Wanna bet?" Walt laughed maliciously, revelling in the pain he was unleashing on the giant of a man before him. This was definitely more fun than killing him. Make him live for days, maybe even weeks, thinking his brother was dead, and when he finally learns otherwise, killing him in front of his beloved Dean. The bond those two had, it was, let's just say, to the point of being obsessive. It was taking brotherly love to an entirely different level. But as saccharine as the bond the brothers shared was to him, Walt had to admit that at times like now, it most definitely had its advantages. After all, Dean would move heaven and earth to find his baby brother, as Sam would have done for him. The result? Finally getting both Winchesters together, forcing the other one to watch his brother die. As the old saying went, killing two birds with one stone: literally, at that. Granted, he could have easily killed Dean in that very motel room; Sammy too. But it would not have been nearly as fun. Sure, it may have caused a bit more of a headache, a little added stress, but it would still be worth it to Walt. Because at the end of the day, both Winchesters would be dead and that was all that mattered. And that look of pure horror that Sam was trying _so hard_ to mask with anger? Fucking priceless!

Though there was no doubt that Sam Winchester_ was_ pissed. He had just endured another of Lucifer's "playful" visits not an hour earlier, not physical torture per se, and free of any memories from Hell, but with our friendly neighbourhood devil sitting in a corner, a sly grin on his face, whacking a ping pong ball continuously against the metal wall. Between his worry for his brother, lack of sleep, and the incessant pestering that Lucifer delighted in causing, Sam was honestly surprised that he had not broken down already. But now, temporarily free from the devil's torment and with the recent news of Dean's alleged passing, Sam knew that he was about to snap.

"Go to hell," Sam hissed, the words poison from his lips.

Walt had merely laughed at the comment, and left the room, leaving the young man to collapse on the floor, gasping for breath.

Dean was dead. No. It couldn't be. It would take a hell of a lot to bring Dean Winchester down. Fuck, the man had literally been to Hell and back, had been killed in some of the most horrific ways imaginable that fateful Tuesday in Broward County when the Trickster had delighted in throwing him in that time loop… a mere hunter would not be the one to take him down… could it? After all, the both of them had defied the natural order more times than he could count. But Castiel had always been there to save the day, to bring either of them back…or at least had connections to do the job for him. But Cas was dead, the only reminder of his existence being that drenched (and now, no doubt mildewed) trench coat that Dean had insisted on keeping for some reason.

Dean…

Sam looked up, hazel eyes bright with the tears he was trying so hard to shed, and the sweat from his countless hours of insomnia. For a moment, he indulged in tears; after all, there was no one to hear him except those assholes upstairs, the ones who had claimed to have murdered his brother. Then, in sheer fury, Sam stood and slammed his body against the steel door, not caring if his skull slammed against the door frame. After all, Dean was gone; Lucifer was having his jollies messing with his already fractured psyche; the lack of sleep and food were slowly killing him. Why not just speed the process a little?

No. It wouldn't be what Dean would have wanted. For a moment, despite the shit that had been plaguing his mind for weeks, Sam remembered that night in New Harmony, four years earlier. _Keep fighting,_ his brother had told him, and Sam had promised; well, had at least_ tried_ to, until his insatiable need to first rescue, and then avenge his brother had resulted in his tag team with a demon. But now, there were no options: Cas was gone; Bobby gone; no demon willing to deal. He had, after all, pissed off the devil and his minions royally with his plan to save the world. Could he really go on without Dean? Was it even possible?

"What's the matter, Sammy? You seem a little, say, out of sorts?"

"Fuck you," Sam muttered as once again, Lucifer came into the picture, leaning casually against the wall. The devil smirked, undeterred by the insult. "Really, Sam? That's all you got? A simple 'fuck you'? Believe me, kiddo, I've heard a LOT worse over the millennia…"

Sam winced, pressed his finger tightly against his palm. He had just learned that his brother was dead. The last thing he needed at the moment was Lucifer's endless mind fuck. But when Sam opened his eyes, the devil was still there, a patronizing grin on his face. "What's wrong? You look a little surprised. Let me guess. You thought you could just get rid of me by pressing that there scar on your hand, hmm? A little squeeze and _presto,_ the devil went down to Georgia?" Luci chuckled at his lame attempt at humour. "Yeah, yeah, I know, I ain't George Carlin. But it was a _little _funny." Lucifer noticed the look of pain on Sam's face, and his smile widened into a grin. "Oh, I know! Big brother's out of the picture now, isn't he? No doubt doing the tango with your BFF Ruby as we speak. That's right," noticing the look of horror on Sam's face, "our very own Mr. Winchester is back in Hell! Wonderful! I never had the fortune to enjoy a little _tete a tete_ with your brother."

"No. It's not true."

"Oh, it is, and you know it. After all, he's already been to Hell once, and I'm pretty sure he's got a spot reserved for him for when he went back."

"NO!" Sam screamed in agony, pressed his finger into his palm enough to draw blood. And mercifully, this time, when he opened his eyes, the devil was gone.

xxx

**Four hours later**

Dean hadn't been surprised to find the motel deserted. After all, Roy and Walt _were_ hunters. After combing every square inch of the room and finding nothing, Dean finally felt that he had no choice, and reluctantly pulled out his cell, dialed Garth's number.

The goofy young hunter answered on the first ring.

"Seriously, dude, are you sitting by the goddamned phone?"

"Touchy, touchy," Garth answered, sounding rather hurt. "Someone's gotta do it. Besides, Mr. Fizzles could use a little excitement in his life."

Under normal circumstances, Dean would have readily commented on just how _wrong_ that statement had sounded, but not now. Not today. "Garth, I need a favour from you. This is very important. Have you ever heard of a pair of hunters, go by Walt and Roy?"

"Walt and Roy…." Garth murmured to himself, clearly in thought. Dean waited impatiently on the other end of the line, was about to hang up, when the unorthodox young man at the other end of the line finally spoke up. "No, I don't remember any Roy, but this Walt guy, he's been around. What's so big that you need to find this guy for, anyway?"

Dean surprised himself by answering truthfully. "We're not exactly on the friendliest of terms, and they have Sam. Need to track down the sonsofbitches, and believe me, it won't be pretty." Fortunately, Garth left it at that, and continued. "Last time I've heard of him, he's been setting up base in Russellville, Arkansas. Might want to check there."

"Yeah, thanks Garth."

"Don't mention it."

Dean sighed, disconnected the call. It would be a good half a day's drive to Arkansas. And that was if he hauled ass right now, and dropped any breaks for a bite to eat. At least Garth had been able to help, with as little pain possible. The last thing he needed to hear was the hunter's newly coined trademark: "you've been Garthed."

Grabbing his gun from the counter and pulling his keys from his jeans pocket, Dean was out the door in a flash. If he matted his foot on the gas, just a little, he might be able to get to Arkansas a bit early…


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you all for the lovely reviews! You all are such great motivators; you're the ones who help me continue to write, even when I have a massive case of writer's block! Thank you again! DISCLAIMER: I do not own **_**Supernatural**_** or any of its characters. My purpose is only to bring enjoyment to fellow SPN fans! Also, Russellville is really a town or city in Arkansas, but I completely made up the address. If there really happens to be such an address, I assure you it is purely coincidental. **

**Chapter 6**

**April 2010**

Dean switched off the tap with a little too much vehemence and the comforting stream of hot water fizzled, until only a drip trickled from the shower head. The stream had been scalding hot, to the point of being more than a little uncomfortable, but he had endured the sting gladly. Not only had the hot shower been soothing, his body aching from having been shot point blank in the chest, but it had helped to clear his mind. Within the past twenty-four hours, he and Sam had been through enough pain, physically as well as emotionally, to last a lifetime. What was a little hot water?

Dean closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the tile that lined the bathtub; before him, images of the past few hours flashed before his eyes, like snippets of film. Seeing his mother, at first gentle and loving, and then a demonic minion of Zachariah, bent on inflicting pain; reuniting with Ash and Pamela at the Roadhouse, enjoying a beer and for a moment, forgetting about the Apocalypse while joking with his mullet sporting friend; running from Zachariah through the twisted maze that was Heaven; realizing that Sam's fondest memories had nothing to do with him or his father…

That had hurt the most. Dean recalled the first memory shortly after Walt and Roy had ended their lives: Fourth of July, 1996, with the boys setting off stolen fireworks and relishing in the beauty, the _freedom,_ of the scene before them. It had been one of the happiest times in his miserable life: no drill sergeant father barking orders; no suppers from a can, Dean anxiously waiting for his dad to come home while trying to hide the Winchester family history from Sammy; no endless training sessions as their father tried to teach his boys to take down the supernatural beings which had plagued his family since he was four. Just the two of them, enjoying a rare moment of pure happiness, temporarily putting behind the shit which had targeted his family that horrible November night…

And what had Sammy's memories been? Playing catch in the back field? Sitting comfortably with Dean as they watched cheap horror movies and laughed at how fake the vampires were? Enjoying one of those rare moments with their father in between hunts? No. They had been Thanksgiving dinners with complete strangers; that night he had abandoned his family for Flagstaff, leaving Dean to believe his little brother was dead; that night when Sam had left for Stanford. And Dean had been hurt. No denying, to realize that none of his kid brother's memories involved the older brother he had claimed to idolize, that had hurt more than the actual bullets. Sure, as Sam had claimed, the younger boy had "never had the crusts cut off his PB&J", had never enjoyed those blessed, but few, years with a loving mother, but to think that Flagstaff had been a happier moment for him than that Fourth of July…it had been too much to bear. And Dean had tossed his amulet, the one Sam had given him, had been meant for his father, in the trash. He had not turned around, but he could _feel_ the look of hurt in Sam's hazel eyes. He could almost hear him say, "Please Dean. Please don't do this." But he had. And now, three days later, he regretted everything.

But amulet or not, those sick bastards had killed his brother. Granted, Joshua had brought them back, but to watch Sammy die, his chest riddled with lead, it had been too much. Dean shuddered, remembering that horrible moment as he witnessed his brother's execution. He could smell the gunpowder, hear the grunted moans as Sam felt each bullet rip through his body, could even hear the soft _plop_ as his brother's body collapsed on the bed beside him. And then, there had been Roy. The one whose gun was aimed at him, trigger finger ready, but clearly hesitant. He remembered that look of annoyance on Walt's face, as if icing the Winchesters was as much of a bother as swatting a pesky fly. And he remembered the last words he had told the sonsofbitches before trigger happy Walt had finally lost his patience and killed him, too: _Go ahead…do it. But I'm gonna warn ya, when I come back, I'm gonna be pissed._

Dean felt a surge of anger rush through his veins. No one ever messed with his brother and lived to tell about it. Suddenly feeling chilled despite the scalding hot shower, the hunter reached for a towel and headed to change. On his bed, Sam was typing furiously on his laptop, oblivious to his brother's presence. Reaching for his duffle, Dean quickly pulled out a fresh change of clothes and quickly stuffed his legs into his jeans. "Come on, Sammy, we're heading out."

"Why? We just got here?" Barely looking up from the screen, his own face haggard from the ordeal they had just endured. Dean ignored it and zipped his duffle with a flourish. "It's payback." Another memory of that night flashed through Dean's brain, like a song stuck on repeat: "we need to get this show on the road."

xxx

**Present Day**

_Let's get this show on the road._

Memories of that April night flooded Dean's brain, and he pressed his foot a little harder on the gas. He remembered that promise he had made to Walt and Roy that night, a promise that he had been forced to abandon. Granted, the brothers were rather busy averting the apocalypse, but Dean had made a promise, not just to his attempted killers, but to his brother: that he would come back, and when he did, he would be pissed. Unfortunately, the whole business of being branded as the vessels of Michael and Lucifer had been a sidebar in his plans for vengeance; and after Sam had jumped in the pit in Lawrence, thoughts of vengeance had been replaced by grief. Now, he was about to lose his brother again. And this time, there was no way he was going to let those bastards off easy.

Dean stole a quick glance at his watch; he had been driving non-stop for eight hours now. The Arkansas state line was only a few miles ahead. As the Impala tore through the Missouri landscape, Dean thought of his brother, clinging for life, or worse. The thought made him shudder despite the late summer heat. He couldn't be gone. If Walt and Roy had wanted Sam dead, they would not have taken the trouble to abduct him, and no doubt send Dean on this wild goose chase that had to have been a part of those assholes' twisted plan. No, Sam was alive. He had to be. He couldn't lose his brother again.

After what seemed like an eternity, the Impala finally crossed the state line, and Dean quickly sped along I65, trying desperately to remember where Russellville was, and praying that it wasn't too late. _God, Cas, where are you when I need you, buddy?_ But there was no chance that the angel would appear, and for once, Dean wished whole heartedly that his celestial companion would zap himself beside him, oblivious to the awkwardness of his random and usually inappropriate visits. "Dammit, Cas." Dean gritted his teeth, and floored the Impala, testing the limits his baby would go and praying that the state police wouldn't be around nearby, waiting to nail him for speeding. He had been slack with finding Walt and Roy before, and Dean would be damned if he made the same mistake twice.

Xxx

Dean had finally drove into Russellville later that evening, just as the sun was about to sink beyond the horizon. Now that he was finally there, he slowed down to a respectable pace, and pulled into the parking lot of a local motel. Garth had said that this was Walt and Roy's current address: that did not mean that either of them still lived here. Cursing himself for his impulsiveness, Dean checked in, and finally collapsed onto the motel room bed, his exhaustion and worry for his brother's wellbeing at last taking their toll. He needed to find Sam, but he couldn't do it exhausted. He closed his eyes, fully intending to only rest them for a moment, only to fall into a long overdue, but far from restful, sleep, haunted with nightmares of his brother being brutally murdered before his very eyes. Dean would have his gun drawn, ready for the kill, only to have his weapon viciously removed from his hands; and as he was forced to watch, Walt would empty his shotgun into Sam's chest, as Roy laughed in twisted glee at the sight….

Dean awakened with a start, face drenched with sweat. A quick glance at his watch confirmed that it was 3AM, and that Dean had been asleep for about seven hours. "Fuck!" he yelled, leaping from his bed and reaching for his cell phone. He had to find out where the hunters lived, if they still even lived in the area; because Dean knew that once he found Walt and Roy, he would find his brother too. And the longer time passed, the less likely it would be that Dean would find his brother alive. Trying to push the horrific thought aside, the elder Winchester scrolled through his contact list, found Garth's number.

"Yo."

"Garth, it's Dean. I'm in Russellville now. Please tell me those bastards still live here."

Dean could practically see the silly grin from the other end of the line. "Actually, my friend, I can give you more than that. I have an address: 1985 Whitfield Road. Old farmhouse west of the city limits. I'll bet ya ten bucks that's where Sam is."

Dean felt the first glimmer of hope in hours at Garth's words. So Sam was nearby, no doubt only a half hour or so away. Thanking Garth, Dean disconnected and headed out to the Impala, rummaging through the trunk. He was going to find his brother; because he had made a promise. And if there was anyone who would never back out on a promise, it was Dean Winchester.

Xxx

It was just after four in the morning when Dean cut the engine of his baby and quietly climbed out. He'd have to go by foot the rest of the way, or risk alerting Walt and Roy of his presence. Trying to calm his frayed nerves, Dean opened the trunk, carefully selecting a 9mm, which he tucked into the back of his jeans, extra rounds of ammo, a dagger, and a flashlight. Quiet so as not to cause a disturbance, Dean slowly shut the trunk and made his way along the narrow, tree lined drive, carefully aiming the beam of his flashlight around every crevice possible. Who knew who lurked in the shadows, or what booby traps had been laid out in anticipation for his arrival? He tried to push away the memory of Gordon Walker's numerous traps he had planned for Sam years earlier, and took comfort in the fact that his brother had been one step ahead. What else could one expect from a Winchester? Grinning despite his fear, Dean swept the beam of his flashlight in every corner, eyes peeled for danger.

He arrived at the decrepit farmhouse without incident. It looked like a typical southern farmhouse, complete with wrap-around porch, wooden storm door, even a tire swing in a nearby oak tree. Dean switched off his flashlight, blanketing himself in comforting darkness, and carefully made his way around the house, in desperate search for a point of entry, or a sign that Sam was being held here. Nothing. Undeterred, Dean continued his sweep of the property, mindful of his surroundings, cold sweat stinging in his eyes despite the early morning chill. He would have missed the tiny basement window if not for the rock.

He had tripped on the large stone, landing with a sickening thud. For a moment, Dean lay still, eyes closed, praying that the inhabitants had not heard him fall and head out to investigate. After several minutes of tense silence, he finally dared to open his eyes and carefully right himself. He paused, waited for the inevitable.

Nothing.

Willing himself to believe that he had survived the incident without alerting Walt and Roy, Dean leaned against the cement of the basement, his hand brushing against a window pane, cracked only slightly. Not daring to switch on his flashlight, Dean leaned against the glass, trying desperately for his eyesight to adjust to the dark. Fortunately, luck was with the young Winchester: the window could easily be pried open; even better, once Dean had carefully opened it, he realized that the distance to the ground was not that far.

_So far, so good. _

Hesitating slightly, Dean swung his legs inside the window and carefully dropped to the ground below; the thud of his boots on cement, as quiet as it was, made Dean's heart momentarily stop beating: had someone heard him? But after a few minutes, with no sound of footsteps on the basement stairs, Dean allowed himself to breathe, and once again switched on his flashlight, its beam piercing the darkness. After a quick sweep of the area, his eyes ventured to the heavy iron door in the far right corner. Sort of like a panic room. A perfect place to hold someone captive. Heart pounding, Dean crept to the door, ran his hands across the metal, hoping to find a way inside; and sure enough, the lock loosened with a snap, and the door quietly slid open.

_This is too easy,_ Dean thought, and immediately his hunter instincts kicked in. It was almost as if someone _wanted_ Dean to find it.

Before he could even make his way inside, Dean felt a dull pain as a heavy object was bludgeoned against his skull.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: First off, a big thank you to not just my reviewers, but all those who took the time to read the story period. I realize that I have only been thanking the reviewers, and so to any I may have neglected, I'm sorry ;( But thanks for your continued support as I write, especially to deanstheman, mandancie and madinalakesavedmylife (I really hope I got that right!) who have taken the time to read, review, and/or PM me. It really helps a lot! Thank you again, it is so very much appreciated! DISCLAIMER: I do not own **_**Supernatural**_** or any of its characters/stories. For entertainment purposes only. **

**Chapter 7**

Walt watched, a twisted smile forming on his lips, as Dean carefully maneuvered through the basement, aiming his beam in every nook and cranny of the space (though not _every _one, Walt had thought gleefully, as the small patch of light swung past his body and failing to reveal his presence. Beside him, Roy was looking as uncomfortable as always. Damn, that man was a pussy. Walt flashed another of his trademark glares at his companion, but Roy had failed to notice, staring blankly ahead, as if oblivious to what was transpiring before him.

Sure enough, Roy was engaging in a battle of vast proportions with his conscience at the moment. Part of him very much wanted to appease Walt; after all, if the man was willing to snuff Dean Winchester's life, to arrange a sadistic plan for the sole purpose of petty revenge, then what would stop him from killing _him?_ But that nagging feeling just wouldn't leave, torturing his very mind and soul. To not only kill a man in cold blood, but to make another believe his brother was dead? Closing his eyes, Roy recalled that horrible night when his own brother's life had been taken…

Xxx

**Richardson, Texas, off the North Central Expressway**

**August, 2002**

_Roy stands in the torrential rain, his brother's body limp in his arms. He can smell the burning fuel, the heavy smoke, the metallic scent of Jason's blood, somehow co-existing with the sweet smells of a late summer rain…the scent of the Texas Prickly Poppy growing along the roadside. It was odd, how such pleasing smells could somehow mingle with the bitter scent of death…_

_Roy blinked, snapping out of his reverie, as he felt his brother's body tremble faintly in his arms, the grime and blood on his face washing away in the late summer rain. Nearby, Roy could hear the crickets singing, and the young man wondered how it was possible that something as perfectly normal as the sounds of nature could possibly be happening right now, with his brother dying in his arms…_

"_Jason." Roy pressed his torn t-shirt against a massive wound in his brother's side, oblivious to the discomfort of the rain as it pounded on his bare back, causing the lacerations on his skin to sting. Jason was conscious, but unresponsive, grey eyes staring unseeing at his brother. His breath was shallow, chest slowly and painfully rising with each strained breath, mouth opening and closing, as if he were trying desperately to communicate, unspoken words of comfort._

_Roy felt his brother's body slacken as the young man finally drew his last breath. He closed his eyes, his tears mingling with the warm, summer rain as he held his brother one last time…_

xxx

**Present Day**

Sam's eyes slid open, wincing in pain as bright light infiltrated his tiny prison. The searing pounding of the migraine, along with the weakness of dehydration, lack of sleep (other than the odd time when sheer exhaustion and weakness would cause him to pass out) had left the hunter weak in the knees. Fighting the urge to vomit, Sam steadied himself, leaning against the wall for support, patiently waiting for the nausea to pass. When finally he felt that he could walk without dry heaving, the young man slowly adjusted to his surroundings. And immediately almost collapsed to the floor beneath him.

There, securely tied to a wooden chair, head limp to his side, was his brother.

At first, no words would come. A sea of emotions swept over Sam, like a flash flood. His brother was there, before his very eyes. Walt and Roy had been lying; or at least, had been earlier. Dean had tried to rescue him, and had been abducted in the process; not exactly a shocking revelation in the Book of Winchester. And then, a horrific thought occurred to him, enough to make the young man nearly vomit again. _What if this wasn't real? What if this was another of Lucifer's mind fucks, messing with little Sammy?_

"No." Sam squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for Lucifer to make yet another of his grand entrances. He stood that way for several moments, finally daring to open his eyes and dreading that the sight of his brother would only be an illusion. But when he finally dared to open his eyes, there he was, still out cold, just as before. Stunned, Sam stood for a moment, before finally stumbling to his brother's side, praying that he was still alive.

"Dean," he murmured, searching madly for a pulse, and praying that he was lucid enough to be able to detect one, despite his physical and psychological state. Luck held, however, and Sam was able to detect the strong and steady beat of his brother's heart. "Oh, thank God," relief rushing over him, and finally, emotionally exhausted, Sam collapsed at his brother's side, tears of relief gently trickling from his cheek. Dean was alive. How could he have even doubted that his brother wouldn't be? He was John Winchester's boy, after all.

It was like that, with his brother throwing the penultimate of chick flick moments that Dean came to, his own skull pounding as if it had been pummelled continuously with a jack hammer. Slowly Dean adjusted to his surroundings, breathed a sigh of relief to find his brother at his side, and gently called his brother's name: "Sammy. Thank God." Then, looking down at his still tightly secure wrists, managed to let out a little spark of his typical Dean Winchester humour: "you wanna untie me sometime this decade, Sasquatch?"

Sam looked up, saw his brother awake, and quickly blinked away his tears, fumbling with unsteady hands at the dingy ropes. It took longer than usual, and Dean swallowed the fear that was beginning to rise in his throat like bile. _Geez, Sammy, you look like Hell warmed over._ After what seemed like an eternity, Sam had finally managed to free Dean's right wrist, and had begun to work on the left when heavy door swung open, revealing their captors, guns drawn. "Don't move."

Undeterred (and no doubt half mad from sleep deprivation), Sam ignored the order, continuing to loosen Dean's bonds. Terrified for his brother's life, Dean tried desperately to get his stubborn brother to stop: "Come on, Sammy, do what he said. I'll be fine." But what had frightened the elder Winchester the most was not Sam's refusal to do as ordered, but the glazed look in the young man's eyes, the way his fingers were fumbling with a task as simple as untying a knot, the look of sickening pallor on his face. And then, the sickening sound of gunfire as Walt discharged his weapon.

"SAMMY!" Dean's heart stopped in his chest as he saw his brother collapse in a heap at his feet, a pool of blood staining the cold cement. Dean struggled to rip at the other rope, tearing at his cuticles until he drew blood, calling his brother's name to no one in particular. Nearby, he could hear Walt groaning inwardly, still holding the proverbial smoking gun. "Fuck. He was supposed to be the one to watch you die." Beside him, Roy looked pale, as if he had just seen a ghost, his own gun still drawn on the remaining brother. And at that moment, a horrific case of deja-vu flashed before Dean's very eyes, of his brother's unresponsive body lying on the bed beside him, the cold steel of a gun barrel aimed at his own chest. And further still, the look of uncertainty across Roy's harried face. And a white hot fury rushed through Dean at the sight of his brother, bleeding to death at his feet, at the sight of the sonsofbitches who had pulled the trigger. Hatred filled his green eyes as he stared coldly at the men before him. He spoke up, voice venomous as he felt the anger erupting through his already weakened body.

"Two years ago, I made a promise. I told my brother, fuck, I told _myself_ that if I would come back after you assholes shot me. And that when I did, I'd be pissed. You wanna know the biggest mistake of my life? Not following through on that promise when I should have." Praying it wasn't too late, Dean deftly lowered his body from the chair, reaching for the Glock that Walt and Roy had been hopefully too stupid to remove from his pants…

No such luck.

Another shot fired, missing Dean's head by inches. Deftly, the skilled hunter twisted his body to the side, butting his head against Roy's lower body and knocking the hunter to the ground, the shotgun crashing to the floor. Another _bang,_ and another bullet whizzed by, so close that Dean could feel the hairs on his cheek stand on end. But Dean didn't care. Quickly, he reached for the shotgun swung it against Walt's legs, satisfied to hear the snap of broken bones as the weapon made contact. Walt yelped in pain, and Dean quickly cocked the weapon, firing a round into first the hunter's wrist, and then in both kneecaps; Walt collapsed to the ground, hissing in pain and cursing Dean's name under his breath.

"You'd better be cursing me, you sonofabitch," Dean snarled, and immediately turned his attention on Roy, who had regained his footing, and was reaching for Walt's weapon. Anticipating Roy's attack, Dean pressed his boot on Roy's wrist, causing the other hunter to scream out in agony. Undeterred, Dean continued the assault. "Bet you're wishing you pulled the trigger now, Roy. Nobody messes with my little brother." He aimed his shotgun, ready to put a bullet between the man's eyes. But then, he hesitated. Not because of any fear in the other man's eyes, but the look of peace. The look of a wounded animal waiting to be put out of its misery. And, as if to confirm his suspicions, the young man looked up with gritted teeth, eyes moist with tears. "Do it." Dean hesitated again, suddenly unwilling to pull the trigger. He couldn't for the life of him understand why, but there was something in the way that he had always been reluctant to actually kill the boys; how it had always been Walt to initiate any plans, to do the deed.

"Please. Just kill me."

For a moment, Dean almost humoured the man; after all, he _had_ intended to kill Sam. But instead, he quickly turned the weapon to his right and fired three rounds into Walt's chest, the sound of the gunshots echoing in the confined space. He turned, satisfied, as Walt lay in a pool of blood, eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling.

"Dean Winchester never breaks his promises."

For a moment the room was silent, the tiny room filling up with smoke. Then, Dean felt his weapon drop as he rushed to his brother's side, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. Sam's face was ashen, the skin cold, lips turning a horrific shade of blue. "Goddammit, Sammy," Dean moaned, and another horrific memory almost caused him to freeze in terror.

_Sammy, on his knees, bleeding from Jake's lethal stab wound, head rolling limply on its side like a rag doll. Dean, fumbling for a pulse, muttering broken promises that everything would be ok, it was his job to look out for his pain in the ass little brother._

No. Not this time. Not if he could help it. Swallowing his fear, Dean continued his frantic search for a pulse, and finally allowing himself to breathe when he found one, albeit faint. "It's ok, Sam, I'm here, I've got ya. It's ok… I won't leave you. I promise…"

xxx

Roy watched the scene before him, the air rushing from his lungs. It was happening again; only this time, he was cradling his brother's body in this shithole, running grimy fingers through his spikey hair and murmuring comforting lies. He was trying desperately to keep from sobbing, anything to keep Jason calm, cradling his lifeless body in his arms.

He had begged Winchester to put him out of his misery. And it had, to be honest, surprised Roy when the hunter had refused. Walt, hell, Dean had taken him out without so much as a second thought, as he was doing something as mundane as taking out the trash. But he had hesitated in killing him, had actually lowered his weapon. Had Dean recognized that look of pain? After all, if the rumours he had heard were true, the man had witnessed his brother die on more than one occasion. Had Dean somehow…?

No. He had tried to kill his brother. Dean had said so himself, if anyone messed with Sammy, there would be hell to play. Roy felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. It didn't matter if Sam Winchester had pulled the ON switch on the apocalypse; he was a little brother, and Roy could very much relate to the pain of losing a brother.

Xxx

Dean had almost missed the gunshot.

He had managed to stabilize his brother enough for him to move him to the Impala when he heard the sound of gunfire. Instinct told him to duck down, and he knelt to the ground, sheltering his brother's battered body with his own. When, a few minutes later, Dean realized he was still breathing, Dean looked up. There, not three feet away, lay Roy, dead from a self-inflicted wound to the temple. The young man didn't hesitate. Grabbing his brother in his arms, Dean limped his way over the bodies, up the stairs, and out of the house, as dawn broke from beneath the foliage. Praying that his knees would not give way beneath him, Dean carried his brother to the backseat of the Impala, gently laying him down, before racing to the driver's side. Ignoring every speed limit in the country, Dean backed away from the farmhouse, racing towards the nearest hospital.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Sorry to say that this post may be a bit later, going home for the weekend for March Break (well, Spring Break to my neighbours to the south) so I may not be able to post this for the weekend. Hope you enjoyed the last chapter, despite a few errors I made. One reviewer noticed an inconsistency with the weapons used. I had intended that Dean be shot with a handgun and instead wrote that he had been shot with a shotgun, which would have caused greater damage. This was a simple consistency error on my part, whoops! Anywhoo, thanks for the continued support and hope you enjoy the next chapter! DISCLAIMER: I do not own **_**Supernatural**_** or any of its characters. All rights reserved.**

**Chapter 8**

Dean could hardly remember that trip to the hospital, between the pain from his previous gunshot wounds, the adrenaline from the previous shootout, and the fear he felt for his brother's life. He vaguely recalled running every red light, narrowly ditching his baby or causing more than one serious collision on more times than he would care to admit. But now, there he stood in front of the doors of the emergency room, Sam unconscious in his arms, screaming wildly for help. He hardly noticed the intense pain in his side from his own run in with Walt and Roy, really only acknowledging it hours later, when Sam was in surgery.

"I need help!" Dean's voice was steady despite his fear, and in what seemed like seconds, Sam was laid on a stretcher and whisked away, the older brother limping behind. That was, until a nurse laid a gentle, but surprisingly firm hand on Dean's shoulder. He looked up at him, concern and what seemed like a trace of anger in his brown eyes.

"Sir?"

Dean looked up, and under normal circumstances, would have uttered a curse from under his breath. This was the very nurse who had cared for him earlier, the one who had been on duty when he had checked himself out a few days earlier. But at the moment, Dean didn't care. "My brother…" he muttered, staring blankly ahead, oblivious to the steady crowd of hospital staff, patients, and distraught family members around him. It was if an electrical current had been cut; that power source, the adrenaline he had had from the moment he had found Sam to the seconds he had been rushed away, was gone, now that his brother's fate was out of his control. And finally, the toll of the past few days came back with a vengeance, and he felt lightheaded. While the gunshot wounds had not been life threatening initially, his disappearing act from 48 hours earlier had taken its toll.

"Sir, you need to come with me. You need medical attention right now. That little stunt you pulled a few days ago didn't help with your recovery process."

Dean nodded, the fight gone, but still made a feeble attempt of protest: "my brother. I need to know if he's going to be ok." The nurse nodded, his sympathy for the man overpowering his anger and, dare he say, resentment at the man. Sure, the guy had bailed while he had been on duty, and the shit had _really_ hit the fan; but one look at his patient's tired, pain ridden face was enough to calm his nerves. Nodding in understanding, he gently led Dean down a corridor, mindful of his injuries. "You need to be re-admitted yourself, sir, but I assure you, we'll let you know the minute we hear about your brother, Mr. Ryan."

Dean stared blankly, momentarily forgetting about his and Sam's alias, and then nodded. Fortunately, the nurse mistook the confusion for shock, and guided the wounded man to admittance.

Xxx

Sam's prognosis was admittedly bleak. It didn't take long for the doctors to recognize that on top of his gunshot wound, their patient's lack of sleep and malnutrition had worsened his condition. Immediately Sam had been rushed to surgery, where he had coded twice before finally the surgeons were able to stabilize him. Walt's shot had damaged his spleen beyond repair and had caused severe internal bleeding; though not to the point where it had been life threatening, malnutrition and dehydration, on top of many sleepless nights, had weakened his immune system. Somehow, he had survived the surgery, but remained in critical condition.

Dean was desperate to see his brother, but his own injuries had sidetracked any visits to see his brother. Frustrated (and now angry, the numbness of shock replaced by the frustrations of being bedridden. The doctors had been very patient initially, calmly explaining Sam's prognosis to his terrified older brother. Sam's surgeon, a middle aged man with salt and pepper hair and warm, brown eyes, had delivered the news to Dean. Introducing himself as Dr. Blake, the older man had calmly, and seemingly heartlessly (at least to the young man receiving the news) delivered the news to Dean, a medical chart in hand.

"Mr. Ryan, your brother has suffered some serious injuries. We were able to repair some of the damage, but the bullet has damaged Sam's spleen. The internal bleeding has been controlled, but there are no guarantees that there will not be any additional bleeding." Dr. Blake paused a moment, flipping through his charts. "Were you aware of your brother's malnutrition? Part of the reason he is in the condition he is in now is because of his lack of nutrients. If he had not been shot, Sam would have been admitted for malnutrition within a few weeks."

Dean looked up, struggling to contain his anger. Of course he knew about his brother's shitty eating habits as of late; he had tried to get the kid to eat something, but with Lucifer on speed dial, ready to torment at any given moment, it was no wonder that the kid had had trouble eating and sleeping. Instead of blowing up at the doctor, however, Dean reluctantly nodded. "Yeah, I've been trying to get the kid to eat, but he just refused." _Because the goddamned devil is messing with his noggin. Should I tell you that, Dr. Blake? I'm sure you'd love to hear about how your patient should be locked in the fucking loony bin!_ Dr. Blake merely nodded, still leafing through Sam's medical records.

"While on the table, your brother's heart stopped on two different occasions; at one point, he had lost blood flow to the brain for over two minutes. Though we were able to resuscitate him, it is likely that he may be comatose. Of course," after seeing the look of horror on Dean's face," miracles can happen. I just wanted you to be aware of the circumstances. We can always hope for the best, but I do not wish to provide any false hopes. You need to be prepared that your brother may not recover."

Dean froze, as if the air had been sucked from his lungs. No. Sam _had_ to make it! He was a Winchester, dammit! Suddenly he felt lightheaded, reached for his bed railing to steady himself. As if on cue, Dr. Blake handed Dean a Dixie cup of warm water, but Dean numbly pushed it aside.

"I need to see my brother. Please," prepared for the _no_ that was about to slip from Dr. Blake's lips. After one look at the man, broken physically and emotionally, the doctor sighed. "Fine, I can let you see him for an hour or so. No more than that, Mr. Ryan. I'm serious. You're my patient too, and I have no intentions of having to work on you for similar circumstances." Dean nodded, and the doctor nodded. "I'll have someone in for you in a few minutes with a wheelchair." He paused, snapping closed his chart before leaving Dean alone in his double room.

Xxx

Dean had seen Sam dead, or on the brink of death, on more than a few different occasions in his relatively short life: he had held his brother's lifeless body in Cold Oak; had seen Walt and Roy shoot, and Anna stab his brother within the past few years. He had even witnessed the pallor of those horrible hours when he had been out after Cas had restored his soul. But nothing could prepare Dean for the sight when he was wheeled in his brother's room fifteen minutes earlier. Seeing his brother's pale, lifeless form, hooked up to what seemed like every machine known to man, was enough to make him physically ill. Dean closed his eyes, and remembered how Sam must have felt all those years earlier, after the car crash. Dean had been comatose for days, his spirit wandering the hospital in search for his reaper; and during those hours, he had witnessed his brother's anguish, the fear in his eyes when his heart had stopped. Dean had seen his limp body, but this had not bothered him nearly as much as seeing Sam under similar circumstances. The steady whoosh of the ventilator as it breathed life into his brother's unresponsive body, the beep of the heart monitor, was repulsive, and yet somehow comforting. While it bothered him to see his brother under such conditions, it was comforting to know that while those machines were working, his brother was still there, still fighting for life. Dean clung to his hope like a child would to his favorite stuffed animal, watching his brother as he fought for his life.

"Sam?" Dean sat at his brother's bedside, holding his hand in his own. The skin felt cool to the touch, and the elder Winchester shuddered. Waiting until he was alone, Dean sat for a few minutes in silence before finally speaking up.

"Hey man, it's me, Dean. I'm here." He paused, as if expecting a response, and continued when, as expected, none came in return. "I- I just wanted to say I'm sorry." Dean felt a lump forming in his throat, but swallowed it, and continued, still gently squeezing his brother's limp hand. "This is all my fault bro. I should have killed those sonsofbitches when I had the chance. I promised you…and now look what's happened. And Luci, that shit's my fault too. If I hadn't made that deal back in Cold Oak, I'd never have had to make that deal. I'd never have gone to Hell, you'd have never drank that demon blood shit, and well…." Dean trailed off, knowing damn well in his heart that he had started the chain of events which had led to his brother's teaming up with Ruby, the demon blood addiction, and ultimately, the events leading to his saying yes to Lucifer. If Sam had not broken that final seal, there would not have been an apocalypse to begin with. Granted, though he had at one point, Dean no longer blamed his brother for the events which had followed Dean's resurrection, but he damn sure blamed himself. It was the Winchester way, after all.

Dean sighed, listened to the steady rise and fall of Sam's chest, the hiss of the machines. "Man, you have to keep fighting. You can't give Lucifer the satisfaction, after all." Smiling a little at that. "I know I don't say this enough, but I love you, man. You can't give up on me. Please." Dean looked down, picking at a fiber on his brother's blanket. There seemed to be no use in talking. Allowing the luxury of a tear, Dean sat in silence, until finally an orderly came and wheeled him back to his room.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hey guys! Thanks again for your continued support, it really means a lot to me! Not to get your hopes up, but since I am currently free of classes for a week, I may be able to update more often! (Note that I still have to plan lessons for my kiddies, so it won't be a chapter a day or anything like that). But I MAY be able to post a few more than usual. We'll see! DISCLAIMER: I do not own **_**Supernatural**_** or any of its characters. Fair warning, this is a pretty disturbing chapter, but I hope you like it anyways. All rights reserved. Oh, and wishing our very own Jensen Ackles a wonderful birthday (not that he's going to read this but whatever :D)!**

**Chapter 9**

The days passed with no change in Sam's condition. The hours seemed to crawl by, to the point where time seemed to nearly stand still. Frustrated by the lack of progress, Dean would spend his days at his brother's bedside, sleeping fitfully in between vigils, at first in his wheelchair, and later (once he had begun to recover himself) in an uncomfortable recliner, with only a heavy, woolen blanket and a rather flat pillow to provide at least a small sense of comfort. Occasionally he would slip away to the vending machine or cafeteria for some of the horrible excuse of a drink the hospital staff called coffee, or to disappear for a moment of fresh air, but for the most part, he remained glued to his brother's side. There was no way that his brother would wake up and find Dean to be nowhere. Again he remembered his own experience in a coma, and how comforting it was to have awakened to see his brother nearby (though admittedly, the way in which he had regained consciousness had been unpleasant to say the least, and the consequences had resulted in the death of his father). No, he was not going to let Sammy wake up alone, not on his watch.

But at this rate, Dean was beginning to seriously fear that his brother would never wake up. The doctors had said that Sam had been without oxygen for almost three minutes, enough to possibly cause severe brain damage, even if his brother did somehow regain consciousness. Could he live with his brother in such a state? To see his brother wasting away into nothing, even if he was awake? Dean shuddered, trying to push away the horrible images. No, Sam _would _wake up. He would be fine. Fuck, the man had not only been to Hell and back, but had spent time in the Cage! Had had some one on one time with the devil himself! Could a bullet really be what brought down Sam Winchester?

Dean sighed, gently released his brother's hand. And, for what seemed undoubtedly like the thousandth time since he was four, Dean reflected on his fucked up life, wishing with all his heart that his family had not been cursed with demons, angels, and the life of hunting in general. Sure, he had had some good times hunting with Sam, and had always clung to the premise of _saving people, hunting things _as if it were a lifeline. He and his brother had been saving lives, had been ridding the world of those that went bump in the night, and that had always made him feel proud. That his life truly meant something. Hell, it was his need to save his brother which had caused him to stand on the devil's chopping block in the first place, to act as yet another Winchester sacrificial lamb.

Dean closed his eyes and gently massaged his temple, feeling a headache coming on. "Fuck you, Azaezel," he moaned, wincing in pain. Memories flashed before his eyes, the Greatest Hits of Dean Winchester, only the hunter would easily argue that the moments that flooded him were more like the crap Sam listened to: that night in 1973 when his mother had initiated their inheritance, making the deal that would change his family's lives forever; the nursery fire which had claimed Mary's life and transformed his brother from an innocent child to the man he had ultimately become, a pawn for the minions of Hell; that horrible morning in which John had sacrificed himself to save his first born (but not before sharing the news that had shattered his world into millions of pieces, the shards piercing his heart and soul in far worse ways than Alistair's torture on the rack had ever done). He remembered that night as his brother died in his arms, and that kiss which had sealed his fate at the crossroads that lonely spring night.

"Sammy…" Dean picked up his brother's hand once more and gave it a gentle squeeze. He hoped desperately that he would feel a reassuring squeeze back, to see Sam's hazel eyes flutter open; but was rewarded instead with the incessant noise of the machines which kept his younger brother alive. Allowing a single tear to gently trickle along his cheek, Dean began to gently rub his thumb against Sam's hand, oblivious (or simply not caring) about he was violating his "no chick flick moments" rule on so many levels. It didn't matter. All that mattered was Sam, that he would wake up, that his nightmare would be over.

He looked down at his brother, realized that he was trembling, as if caught in his own nightmare. "Oh God," Dean mumbled, a sinking feeling forming in the pit of his stomach. Surely Lucifer wasn't toying with him? The kid had been through enough, now the sonofabitch was likely messing with his head, free access. That was his fault, too. If he hadn't had made that goddamned deal… Sam had jumped in the pit because of _him, _because of his selfish desire to keep his brother alive…

"Fuck." Dean closed his eyes again, and felt more tears well in his eyes. It was going to be a long night.

Xxx

"Sammy! Rise and shine buddy! We've got a big day ahead of us!"

_Seriously! Even in a goddamned coma!?_ Sam concentrated with all his strength to awaken, to pierce the veil which separated him from his brother. He had vaguely heard muffled sounds from the other sides, the garbled and yet comforting voice which surely belonged to his brother. Sam wanted so badly to go back to him, to comfort him. After all, he had been in the same position years earlier, when Dean had been the one clinging to life. He had endured the heartache, the physical and emotional stress, the exhaustion of being the loved one waiting for someone to regain consciousness.

But it was so goddamned hard to do that with the fucking devil running in your head. With free access to his brain, Lucifer was definitely taking full advantage, haunting his subconscious like the very things he and Dean hunted. "Get out of my head you sick sonofabitch," he hissed, borrowing a phrase from his brother. Lucifer only smiled, clearly enjoying the young man's torment. "Now, where would be the fun in that?" The devil cackled gleefully, and snapped his fingers in a way eerily similar to the Trickster. Right before Sam's eyes appeared his brother, strapped to a horrible, circular rack, heavy chains protruding from his shoulders and ankles. His blood soaked face was scrunched up in pain, slick with perspiration. But it was not the sight before him which had made Sam's stomach churn, to the point where he wanted to vomit; it was the screaming, those tortured cries for help, the endless shouts of his own name.

"SAM!"

"Oh God. No. NO!" Sam screamed at the top of his lungs, begging Lucifer to stop. But the devil only grinned wider, eyes sparkling with twisted glee. "Guessing you know what's gonna happen next, huh Sammy? What's going to happen to your precious older brother?" And in an instant, a demon, stood before Dean, his hideous face twisted in a malevolent smile. A sharp weapon, likely a machete, gleamed in his hand. Sam watched as Dean's green eyes widened in horror, trying desperately to look away; but Lucifer's force prevented him from turning his head, as if frozen. "Dean!" But, of course, Sam's cries were futile, and the young man was forced to watch as Alistair sliced off first one of his brother's arms, and then the other, Dean crying out in agony with each cut, as the demon laughed at the sport. Sam listened as Dean's cries grew fainter as the life slowly drained from him. And then, in a flash, his brother was whole again, and the process was repeated.

"Make it stop! Please!"

"Stop!?" Lucifer laughed. "Why, Sammy, I'm just getting started!"

And so it continued, incessantly, Sam watching the tortures his brother had endured in Hell time and time again. And then, after what seemed like an eternity, he saw Dean free from the rack, his own weapon clutched tightly in his hand, face ashen and full of guilt. Tied to the rack was another helpless soul, his own eyes pleading for mercy.

Sam vomited.

"What's the matter Sam? Scared to see what big brother is about to do?" Another vindictive laugh as Sam was forced to watch his own brother torture soul after soul on that horrible machine. His eyes filled with tears as he witnessed Dean slicing and dicing human flesh as easily as one would chop vegetables for the stew pot. Though it was obvious that Dean was not enjoying the process, and despite the fact that he clearly remembered that roadside confession in which his brother had tearfully admitted to his transgressions, it still sickened Sam to actually witness the event himself, front row center.

"Are we having fun yet?"

"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up you bastard!"

"Oh wow. I'm just so hurt." Lucifer pretended to pout, pulling one of Sam's own signature puppy dog looks before snapping his fingers one final time.

And mercifully, Lucifer was gone.

**I know, short chappy! I just didn't want to drag Sam's torture too long, it was quite horrible to write, but I felt that it was important to show that while even in a coma, Lucifer was still paying with Sam's mind. Again, sorry for the disturbing content and I hope you all forgive me! Lol. Cheerio!**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Sorry for the hiatus guys, had a bit of writers block! Didn't want things to drag out, or keep Sammy in a coma for the sake of it, and I didn't want to post crap for the sake of having something up. But now I finally have an idea where I'm going with the rest of the story! Thanks so much for the patience and for reading and/or reviewing and PMing. It really makes my day! DISCLAIMER: I do not own **_**Supernatural, **_**or any of its characters. For entertainment purposes only.**

**Chapter 10**

**September 18, 2004**

**San Francisco, California**

"What the fuck were you thinking, Dean?"

Dean closes his eyes, bracing himself for his father's latest explosive outburst. He knows his dad, knows that it is absolutely necessary that he endure this latest "motivational speech", and most of the time, he can deal. Yeah, Dad is pissed. Yeah, he's gonna tear me a new one. But usually, after John cools down a bit, everything's cool. Well, for Winchester standards. John calms down, Dean acknowledges that he screwed up, and life goes on. Hell, Dean has gone through the routine so many times that it seems like old hat now. Now Sammy, well, that had been different. John's youngest had always had a sensitive side to him, had always tried to butt heads with his father, even if Sam was in the wrong. Those two were like two peas in a pod, which was what made them clash so badly in the first place. Both were stubborn as hell, both would refuse to listen to the other, and both would leave at the end of the day hurt and angry. On many occasions, both would regret their harsh words, but end up being too chicken shit to apologize to the other. Dean couldn't remember how many times in his relatively short life how many times he had had to be mediator between the two.

But Dean, he was different. Having idolized (and even emulated) his father since he was a pre-schooler, the eldest Winchester was always following orders. It was always "yessir," "nosir", "I'll get right on it, sir". Very rarely did Dean question his father's orders, or even consider refusing. He had taken a lot of shit from his father, and had developed quite a thick skin. After all, John _was_ an ex-marine, it was no wonder he acted like a drill sergeant most of the time. Besides, his overly strict, no nonsense personality had made both he and Sam excellent hunters.

But now Dean could hardly endure his father's latest rant. He sat on the edge of the bed in the crappy motel room, wishing for all his heart that his father would just shut the fuck up for once.

"I told you about that vamp nest, about how Sammy was the intended target, and you _still _go to Stanford to see him? You could've gotten the both of you killed! What were you thinking!?"

"You told me that day that the nest was cleared out," Dean responded weakly, the usual fire in his voice down to coals. "I figured it was safe to check up on him."

"You _figured!?_ You _never_ assume! That's one of the first rules of hunting! You never just assume that the thing you're hunting is dead. Goddamn it Dean, you _know _that!"

Dean sighed. Yes, he _did_ know that. Assuming is what could get you killed. He looked back on one of his first hunts, as a young teenager, no more than fourteen or fifteen. It had been a simple salt and burn, an easy case for John and perfect for him to teach his son the ropes. Dean had assumed that the ghost would vanish permanently when shot with rock salt, leaving him free tow start digging the spirit's grave in peace. Unfortunately, the spectre had materialized a lot sooner than the teenager had planned, and had attacked the boy in mid-dig. Luckily, John had been around to dispel the spirit and finish the job, but not before the bitch had seriously wounded the boy, to the point that at one moment John had thought he would have to take Dean to the hospital. Once he was fully recovered, John had really gone after him. Never assume _anything._

And now, though it was true that John had vanquished the vampires for good, it had disappointed him that his son, his flesh and blood, the one he had trained to be one of the best hunters on the planet, had made a rookie mistake which could have easily cost either his or Sam's life. And Dean knew it, too. John could tell by the way his firstborn could barely look him in the eye; the way his shoulder's slumped as he sat, the nervous fidgeting of the wool blanket. Oh yeah, Dean knew. And that was made him even angrier. He knew what danger he could have been putting the both of them in, and he took that risk anyway.

"What's the number one rule, Dean?" In a voice soft and calm, which had scared Dean a hell of a lot more than the outburst from earlier. Slowly, Dean looked up, looking his father in the eye and trying not to act as upset as he really was. "Look out for Sam."

The voice was barely audible.

"What was that?"

"Look out for Sam." This time, in a stronger voice, and Dean felt another surge of guilt washing over him. That was his one job, and he could have very easily messed up. Another childhood memory flashed before him, this time the case with the Shtriga which had nearly claimed Sam's life. Dean had been bored, had defied a direct order to play a few stupid arcade games, only to come back and find that horrible creature inches from his brother's face, ready to suck the life from him. Dean had his gun in hand, ready to fire…

And he had hesitated. If John had not come home at just that moment, Sammy would have been dead. And it would have been Dean's fault.

Look out for Sammy…

Xxx

**Russellville, Arkansas**

**Present Day**

_Look out for Sammy…_

Dean sighed, shifting uncomfortably in the crappy recliner the hospital had provided for loved ones who wanted to keep vigil on the ailing. He winced as a sharp pain ran along his upper back, and Dean massaged it, trying to ease the discomfort from sitting in the same position for hours on end. Beside him, there was no change in Sam's condition. He had been comatose for almost a week now, with little, if any, signs of improvement, or hints that he was on the brink of regaining consciousness. Dean had tried to remain hopeful, and had even prayed to Cas (though he knew that he would be wasting his breath, considering the fact that his celestial ally was most certainly dead, or if not, definitely MIA), but as the hours had passed with no change in his condition, Dean had finally given up. Bobby was gone, so he couldn't even confide in his surrogate father with a phone call, to hear any forms of reassurance or false hope, other than the forced smiles of hospital personnel, who tried to reassure him that Sam could come around.

"Look out for Sammy. Some job I did on that." And for what seemed like the hundredth time since this whole shit storm had begun, Dean cursed himself for not having gone after Walt and Roy earlier. He had vowed that he would, that he would drop everything once he came back and gone after the assholes with guns blazing. They had killed his brother. No matter if Joshua had brought them back within 24 hours or so, those pricks had gone into that motel room with the intention of killing his baby brother. And _nobody_ messes with Sammy. Not on Dean Winchester's watch!

But they had. He had forgotten about those sunsofbitches in the clusterfuck that was the apocalypse and Team Free Will. Sure, Sam had forgotten too, as had Bobby, and even Cas. But Dean, he should have _never_ forgotten. It was his damn job to look after his little brother, to protect him at all costs. Even when John had hinted that Dean may have to kill him, the elder Winchester had denied it, and had done everything in his power to prevent that, even if it meant letting his brother drink demon blood, allowing his addiction to spiral out of control. Hell, it would have been protecting the kid to kill him, to end his life quietly and painlessly. But he couldn't. God help him, he couldn't.

"Fuck, Sam. I'm so sorry." Dean looked down at his brother's sleeping form, listened to the steady rise and fall of his chest (albeit aided with the help of the ventilator nearby, reminding him of his brother's dire condition). If not for the maze of tubes and machines surrounding the kid, and the pallor of his face, it would seem that Sam was sleeping, caught in (mercifully) what seemed like a peaceful dream. Dean gently ran a hand through Sam's damp hair, fully aware of the impending chick flick moment and not caring in the least.

"Sam, this is all my fault. If I'd killed those sonsofbitches when I had the chance, none of this would have happened. I'd promised you I'd go after them, and did shit all. It's my job to protect you. Always has been. Well, look how good that turned out, huh?" A weak chuckle, soon drowned out by the choke in his voice as Dean struggled to regain his composure. For a moment, he could have sworn he heard his brother's voice murmur, something around the lines of "it's not your fault", but after pausing and hearing nothing but the drone of the heart monitor and hiss of the respirator, gave up, assuming that the voice was only in his imagination.

"And I don't just mean this," he continued, gesturing around the room with a free hand. "We've been in our share of hospitals before. Hell, five years or so ago I was in your boat. I mean everything. If I hadn't made that deal, I'd have never gone to Hell, broke that first seal. You wouldn't have been desperate enough to turn to Ruby, to have been manipulated to the point of…well, you know. You did all that because you thought it was right, and you made up for it. Fuck, you _more_ than made up for it. I never actually told you this Sammy, but as hard as it was to watch you jump in the pit, I had never been more proud of you. You sacrificed yourself not just for me, but for this whole godforsaken excuse of a planet."

Now the tears were running freely, but Dean didn't care. He relished in the release those tears provided, the healing that letting out his emotions would surely give him. Gently squeezing Sam's hand, Dean cried, all the pent up emotions from the years flowing in that brief indulgence. "I'm so sorry, Sammy." Shaking now, unable to control the pain, letting go of the burden he had been harboring for years. "I can't do this without you. I need you man. Please…"

Sam, as ever, remained unresponsive to the touch, to the sound of his brother's voice. After a few minutes, the tears had subsided, and Dean calmed himself, ashamed of his emotional outburst. If he had seen the kind nurse peer in, witnessing the whole scene, Dean would have been mortified beyond belief. Fortunately, the kind young woman recognized the intimate moment and slipped away. For the rest of the afternoon, an emotionally exhausted Dean sat at Sam's bedside, waiting for what would surely be the inevitable.

xxx

"I'm so sorry Sammy…"

So faint, and yet, even in the depths of unconsciousness, Sam could hear his brother's voice, the pain, the emotion. As usual, the stupid ass was blaming himself for everything. Someone else could be standing nearby with the proverbial smoking gun, and, if it involved Sam's wellbeing, it would always be Dean's fault.

_It's my job…_ How many times had he heard his brother tell him that? That it was his job to protect him, as if the sole purpose of Dean Winchester's existence was to be his older brother, and to watch over him day and night for the rest of his life? Dean couldn't _always_ be there, it was just the laws of nature. One of these days, something would happen, something Dean would not be able to prevent. Hell, on more than one occasion, Sam had been irritated by it. Did his brother really think that little of himself? Did he truly believe that the bane of his existence was to keep his eye open for his kid brother? In a way it had been kind of insulting. "I can take care of myself, Dean," he had told him on more than one occasion. "You don't need to be protecting me 24/7."

But now, even while in the grasp of this endless nightmare, in between the rare moments of peace Lucifer provided, Sam could hear his brother as he mourned, and it frustrated him that he could not provide comfort. If he could just pierce that veil, to somehow reach out to Dean, tell him that it was OK. Well, that would be a lie, having Lucifer tormenting you endlessly was far from the definition of OK, but at the moment, he would do anything to provide some sense of comfort to his grieving brother. But it was impossible. There was no way he was coming to any time soon. Sam sighed, and worry for his brother surged him like a tidal wave. Who knew what Dean would do if Sam didn't wake up? Would he make another deal? True, he had admitted that night in New Harmony that his deal had been a mistake. Fuck, just now, though ever so faint, Sam had heard his brother's confessional, of how he truly believed that his deal had kick started this whole mess in the first place. But then, the Winchesters were notorious for sacrificing themselves, and all for the greater good…

"It's not your fault, Dean. I pomise…"

Damn it, this was so frustrating! To be so close to Dean, and yet so far. To be able to hear him, see him, and not be able to provide comfort. _This must be what a restless spirit goes through,_ Sam thought, and for a wonder, had considered the possibility. If Dean would just pull the plug, let him go, and then he could become a spirit. He and Dean could tag team, just like old times, and forget about the damn Leviathan, Dick Roman….and he'd be free from Lucifer. Surely the Devil would leave him alone then. He had almost considered the idea, enjoyed the thought of becoming the very thing he and his brother used to hunt, when suddenly a familiar voice could be heard in the distance.

"Sam."

He froze. No. It couldn't be true.

It couldn't be Castiel. The angel was dead. Had disappeared into that lake, leaving only his signature trench coat. But that voice was unmistakable. Soft, gravelly, somehow sounding both with and without emotion at the same time (a feat which had always puzzled the Winchesters). Sam did not want to look, wanting so badly for the voice to be Cas, and deathly afraid that he would be wrong. But still, the young man took a chance. Breathing deeply, Sam called out the angel's name: "Cas?"

"Sam." That voice again, and this time, Sam dared to look up, open his eyes. And, sure enough, there stood Cas, dressed as usual in his beige trench coat, complete with loose tie and spikey dark blond hair. Sam broke out into a smile; rushed toward the angel with more affection he had ever shown him when he was alive. Cas, however, was as stoic as ever, never once cracking a smile. His clear blue eyes stared at Sam intently, and his head tilted in that funny way that he had done since first rescuing Dean that September morning all those years ago.

"Sam, it's time."

"What? What are you saying Cas?" But Sam knew, deep in his heart, the reason for Cas' visit. He remembered his father's journal, the time he had searched it for any details on reapers. One vital bit of information hinted that they could change perception, in hopes of enticing those whose time was up to go with them. Could Castiel really be a reaper? For a moment, Sam said nothing, but the need to know the truth was too much. Hardly daring to ask the question, Sam quietly spoke: "Are you a reaper? Cas, are you hear to reap me?"

"No, technically I am not a reaper, but that is not of import." Even in a vision, Cas was always to the point, grammatically correct to the point of sounding silly. Under any other circumstances, Sam would have rolled his eyes at the angel's dialect. But the relief to hear Cas say that he was not a reaper was just too overwhelming.

"But that doesn't mean that you should remain in this state. Dean will go on without you. He has before, he can do it again. I can restore the woman and boy's memories, and Dean can go back to them."

"No. That is not an option." Sam surprised himself with the vehemence in his voice. "That man has gone through so much, I can't do this to him. He needs me. You know what happened after Cold Oak. Yeah, he told me he'd never make another deal, but I know the man. I know just how far he will go for family. Please, don't make him go through that again."

"Sam. I cannot vouch for the choices your brother makes. We all die at some point in our lives. It is inevitable. You cannot live forever, and Dean cannot always be sacrificing himself for you."

"Tell that to Dean, then," Sam muttered, and Castiel blinked momentarily, still not quite familiar with sarcasm. "I'm not physically able to do that…"

"Never mind." Sam closed his eyes, and for a moment considered Cas' words. After all, not five minutes earlier, he had considered the option of dying, of being a spirit and remaining with Dean after death. Macabre? Hell yeah, but at least Dean would have his brother back, albeit in the metaphysical sense. But now, now that Cas had voiced this opinion directly, death suddenly didn't have its appeal.

"Sam, you are running out of time. You need to make a choice…"

Sam looked at Castiel, confused. "What? I need to make a choice now? Wh- what's going on? Cas, TELL ME! CAS!"

xxx

Dean's green eyes widened in fear at the sound of the heart monitor as it flat lined. Terrified, he reached for the call button, pressed it franticly with trembling hands. In minutes, several doctors and nurses rushed into the room, a crash cart in tow. One pushed Dean out of the way, the young man allowing himself to be pushed. Oh god, no. This can't be happening. Not now. Not to Sammy…

"Extra CCs of epi, stat!" The doctor barked the orders and the nurses administered the drug, to no avail. After several amps, the doctor charged his crash cart, attempting to shock the life back in Sam's frail body.

"Clear!" Dean watched in horror as his brother's body jerked and convulsed in the bed. Sam, his Sammy, was on the brink of death, and there was nothing Dean could do about it.

"Charging clear!" A second, and then a third attempt, was made to resuscitate, to no avail. Dean felt his legs turn to rubber beneath him, and he slid to the floor, suddenly nauseous. An orderly was at his side in moments, lifting him up and offering to lead him out of the room, but Dean refused. Not when his brother was dying before his very eyes.

"Starting chest compressions." Dean closed his eyes, unable to watch. "Please, Sammy, please," he whispered, clutching to the kind orderly for dear life. The room suddenly seemed deathly quiet, the only noise the man being able to hear clearly the incessant hum of the flat line…


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Haha sorry for the cliff hanger! (Well, not really!) Getting closer to the end soon guys! Thanks for sticking with me and my little fic that I had never considered writing! I really appreciate your support, it's, as always, what motivates me! And also, as always, I do not own **_**Supernatural**_** or any of its characters. All rights reserved.**

**Chapter 11**

"Cas! What's happening to me?" Sam grabbed the angel by the shoulders, struggling to control the fear that was overcoming him; because deep down, he had a suspicion that at this very moment, Sam Winchester was on death's door. And he felt a surge of grief hit him like a ton of bricks. It wasn't so much the fact that he was dying; that would actually be a relief, come to think of it. He would be with Bobby, Ellen and Jo, Rufus, his mom and dad…

But then, he thought of Dean, his brother and the intense grief that he would be experiencing. Sure, it was Dean's job to look out for him, but job or not, the love, the bond the two of them shared, that was real. And Sam had a feeling that even if John had not given his firstborn that order, Dean would have given life and limb to protect his kid brother. And Cas, he was just sitting there, cool as ice, and not caring? How could he? What kind of angel…?

"Sam." Cas' voice brought Sam back from his reverie. He had stopped shaking the angel a few moments earlier, and now was staring into those hypnotic blue eyes. And though it could very easily have been a trick of the eye, but Sam was almost positive that he had seen something (was it emotion?) in his gaze. Castiel had never been an ace when it came to social concepts; hell, the angel didn't even know how to leave a voicemail, let alone understand the grasp of sarcasm, but he was aware of human emotion. He had admitted as such when he had told Sam that he and Dean had shared a "profound bond", whatever that was. He had risked his life to save his own when Anna had been hell bent on killing him. Maybe, just maybe, Cas understood what he was going through.

"Sam, I'm sorry." Cas' soft, gravelly voice confirmed what Sam was thinking. He _did_ care, or at least, seemed to. Whether it was enough to bring him back from the edge of the grave, well that was a different story. Finally free from the angel's mesmerizing gaze, Sam looked down, eyes moist. "I can't die, Cas. Dean needs me. You saw how he was that year he was alone. You know damn well that he was faking that happy apple pie bullshit with Lisa and Ben. You can't let him go through that. Not again."

"Sam, it's not my choice to make…"

"Bullshit!" The words spat out like poison, Sam's eyes brimming not only with unshed tears, but anger. "You pulled Dean out from Hell, for godsake! If you can do that, you can definitely pull me out of a fucking coma! Dean is broken. He has such a low opinion of himself that he would blame anything that happened to me on himself. Fuck, I could get cancer or something and Dean would hate himself for not catching it sooner."

"I could look out for him."

"Really? Do you honestly think that would work? Seriously Cas, the man hates himself to the point that he's reckless. If something happened to me…" Sam's voice trailed off, as if the words he were about to utter were vile. "If something happened to me, I honestly think he would kill himself."

And Sam cried, for the first time since his brother's death in New Harmony, sobbing to the point that nothing Cas could do would be able to console him. Finally, the sobs began to subside, when Castiel gently laid his hand on the young man's shoulder. Sam looked up, cheeks wet with tears. "Please, Castiel," he whispered. "If not for me, then at least for Dean. I'm begging you…please."

"But Lucifer." Cas was grasping at straws, he knew that, but Sam seemed oblivious. "I know that he has been haunting you, Sam. Should you recover, you will no doubt be subjected to further torture. I couldn't possibly…"

"I don't care," Sam replied, slowly regaining his composure. "I can't have my brother go through this. I just can't. Please Cas. I'm begging you."

Cas stood for a moment, torn. He so badly wanted to heal Sam, but he wasn't sure if he could even be able to. After all, he was not of his physical form, only a dream, a manifestation of Sam's mind. Would that be enough? He had failed to tell Sam this fact, afraid of getting the man's hopes up only to have them come crashing to Earth when proven to be unsuccessful. But Sam was his friend, and he was suffering. _Dean_ was suffering. There was no way that he would let the Winchesters endure any more torture than necessary. If only it would work…

"Alright." Cas finally relented, and Sam looked up at the angel gratefully. "To be honest, I am not certain if this will work…"

"But it's worth a shot," Sam interrupted.

Cas nodded, for once oblivious to the figure of speech. "Yes. It is… um, worth a shot." The angel closed his eyes, and gently placed a hand on Sam's forehead. _I hope this works. If there was ever a time I need to believe in you, Father, it's now. Please let this work…_

The room became engulfed in a brilliant, gold light. Sam winced, sensitive to his surroundings. Cas, however, felt a twinge of hope. Perhaps this would work after all. He allowed himself the indulgence of a fait smile as the aura surrounded Sam, giving him an almost divine presence.

And then, as suddenly as he had appeared, the angel was gone.

Xxx

"Starting chest compressions." Dean closed his eyes, unable to watch. "Please, Sammy, please," he whispered, clutching to the kind orderly for dear life. The room suddenly seemed deathly quiet, the only noise the man being able to hear clearly the incessant hum of the flat line.

"Come on, son, breathe." Dr. Blake continued the chest compressions, as a nurse tried to pump oxygen into Sam's lungs, but nothing seemed to revive the young man. Dean clutched his stomach, a sudden urge to vomit overcoming him, but fortunately managed to keep what little contents in his stomach down. He watched in horror as the doctors worked on his brother, to no avail. After what seemed like an eternity, but was only a few minutes, the doctor stopped.

"That's it, call it." Dr. Blake looked up at the clock, the expression on his face doing little to hide the real emotion. "Time of death, 1:01 PM." The room went deathly silent as one of the orderlies switched off the sea of machinery which had kept Sam Winchester alive.

"No." Dean couldn't breathe. A sharp pain more intense than any physical injury surged through his body, like an electrical current. Beside him, the kindly nurse reached out, but Dean pushed her away, unable to take his eyes of his brother's body. It couldn't be. This couldn't be happening. Not to Sam, not to his baby brother. Nonononono…

By now, some of the doctors had grabbed Dean by his shoulders, trying to lead him out of Sam's room, but the young man refused. He couldn't leave his brother, not now. He could see the doctors carefully remove the machines from Sam's body, with a tenderness that would have surprised him had he been in a more stable emotional state. But now, he felt trapped, as if he were drowning, wrapped in heavy chains of guilt and sorrow which were ever pulling him under. At one point, he felt a prick in his shoulder, and Dean realized that he was being sedated. He tried to fight, willing himself not to succumb to the drug, but he soon felt his body relax, give in to the sedative. Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately, for it could be a blessing to slip into unconsciousness, perhaps never to wake up) it seemed to have been a light dose, enough to keep him awake but allow him to be escorted from the premises without incident. Dean tried to protest; his body was relaxing under the cocktail, but not his mind, or his aching heart. "Sammy…" he murmured, heart breaking. "Sam…"

What happened next was so unbelievable many of those who witnessed had questioned their sanity on more than one occasion. Dr. Blake himself had questioned his abilities for years before finally admitting that something supernatural had occurred. For what had happened in that OR would surely have been considered a miracle.

For the man lying on the bed, pronounced dead not five minutes earlier, suddenly bolted up, eyes wide, gasping for breath. Dr. Blake backed away, dumbfounded, his medical chart crashing to the floor. "What the hell?" The man was gazing around the room, scanning, obviously in search of his brother. His hazel eyes were wet with strain as he struggled to breathe, his lungs burning with each gasp. Somehow, between heaves, he managed to gasp out a name: "Dean."

Xxx

Those five minutes had been among the worse in Dean Winchester's life. Those seconds after Dr. Blake had pronounced his brother dead, Dean had flashed back to that horrible night when Jake had stabbed his brother, when he had held the boy in his arms as the life drained from him. He had endured the worst pain humanly possible those few hours before he had made his life altering deal at the crossroads. He had felt the heartbeat that was once strong and steady, flutter, and ultimately fade, like a match extinguished in the wind. No bullet, stab wound, even the excruciating agony of the hellhound's teeth, had been as painful as those few moments. But now, he was reliving it, that nightmare in Cold Oak replaying like a CD caught on skip. And at that moment, he had thought of the ways that he could end his life, be done with this miserable existence. Probably just a bullet to the head: quick, painless, no fuss. Just there one moment, gone the next. It would be a relief, actually, to be done with monsters, demons, the goddamn Leviathan…

But then, a gasp. Dean looked up, willing his drugged body to co-operate, only to see his brother, his Sammy, sitting bolt upright in his bed, gasping for air. For a moment, Dean could not speak, his shock overwhelming him. And then, a surge of joy, relief so intense that it was almost painful, overcoming him. It was as if someone was pulling him from beneath the waves, bringing him to the surface. "Sam," he called, struggling to his feet. He repeated his brother's name, listening as his gasps eased and his brother had regained composure. The sweetest sounds he had ever heard. Amidst the commotion, Dean could hear his own name being called, faint at first, but stronger as Sam began to breathe normally. "Dean!" If Dean had not known any better, that call seemed to be almost panicked, as if Sam was aware of his brother's suicidal thoughts, and wanted to make sure that he had not grabbed a scalpel or some drugs and just ended his life then and there. "It's ok," Dean murmured. Suddenly, he seemed very sleepy, and he began to wonder if he had been given a larger dose of whatever that shit was after all. The last conscious thought he had before slipping into much needed unconsciousness was an echo from that night in Stull Cemetery in Lawrence, that night when Sam had jumped in the pit: _It's ok, Sammy. I'm not going to leave you…_


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Well, getting closer to the end now! Once again thank you so much to my readers, reviewers, and PMers with their continued support. It means so much to me! And as always, I do not own **_**Supernatural **_**or any of its characters. All belong to Kripke and his awesome creative team!**

**Chapter 12**

When Dean regained consciousness about five hours later, the first thought in his mind was for his brother's wellbeing. Still groggy from the aftereffects of the medication, Dean sat up in bed, blinking the blurriness from his eyes, and scanned the hospital room for any signs of Sam. Fortunately, the doctors had been kind enough to lay Dean in the unoccupied bed in Sam's room; in a quick glance, the older brother was able to find the younger one. And, much to Dean's surprise, Sam was wide awake, a look of concern on his face. _It should be the other way around. _ I _wasn't the one in a damn coma not that long ago…_

But a Winchester was a Winchester, and Sam had definitely been awake worrying about his brother. When Dean had finally come back to the land of the living, rubbing his eyes and trying to adjust to the brightness of the dingy hospital room, Sam had let out a sigh of relief. Dean was awake; Lucifer, at least for the moment, had backed off; he had gotten the most restful sleep he had had in weeks. Hell, if not for the whole almost dying and scaring the shit out of my older brother bit, Sam would have almost been grateful for the experience.

"Dean," Sam murmured in relief, in a voice still hoarse from the tubes which had been forced down there for days on end. Dean was out of his bed in a hurry, legs still wobbly from the drugs, and at Sam's bedside, drinking in the vision of his brother, alive and well. He laid a hand on Sam's shoulder, eyes bright, and smiled in relief. "You sure as hell gave me a scare, bro."

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just glad to have you back Sammy."

The two sat in silence for a moment, before Dean finally brought up the question that was haunting his mind. How did he come to? Who could have possibly made a deal for Sam's life? He sure as hell hadn't, as much as he had weighed the options. He had seriously considered dropping by at the nearest crossroads for another visit with the friendly neighbourhood demon, but had thought better of it. After all, the last attempt had not ended well for either of them. Bobby was dead, Ellen and Jo were gone, and the others in the hunting community sure as hell weren't ready to stand up on the hot seat to hand deliver their asses to Lucifer.

"You want to know how I'm here, don't you?"

Dean nodded. Damn straight he wanted to know.

Sam closed his eyes, trying to look back at what had happened to him. For a moment, his vision was cloudy, and he remembered how when Dean had been comatose, he had had no recollection of his experiences with Tessa, the woman who had attempted to reap him. And then he remembered that the man in his dream (vision?) had not been a reaper. Visions of a man wearing a trench coat, calling his name, flashed before Sam's eyes, and a gentle touch on the forehead…

Cas.

"It was weird," Sam began, shifting in bed to make himself more comfortable. After lying in a bed for more than a week straight, the young man was trying to relieve his aching muscles. Dean helped his brother settle in a more comfy position, and Sam continued. "Anyway, I remember hearing you talking, blaming yourself for what had happened…"

So Sam _had_ heard him. And perhaps that barely audible voice, that ever so faint "it's not your fault" had been Sammy communicating after all. Trying to pierce the veil between the land of the living and that of perpetual unconsciousness. Dean was stunned. Had his brother been trying to communicate with him after all? Stranger things had happened to the Winchesters. Hell, those two had cheated the natural order more times than one could count on one hand (a fact alone which was astronomical). So how odd could it be that his kid brother was trying to talk to him while in a coma?

Dean looked up, aware finally that Sam had stopped talking. Dean looked at him, in an obvious _what are you looking at me for_ expression. Finally, Sam sighed, reaching for a sip of water before continuing. "You've always done that, Dean. Always blamed yourself for things that were beyond your control…" He looked at his brother, saw the look of defeat on his face, and wisely dropped the subject. No need to push it after what Dean had gone through in the past few weeks.

"Anyway, I hear you talking, and suddenly Cas shows up…"

"Cas?" Dean asked in bewilderment. Cas was dead. He had seen the angel disappear into the town reservoir with his own eyes, had actually kept his damn trench coat. How could he possibly…

Sam interrupted his thoughts as he continued his story. "I don't remember much, just Cas touching my head and suddenly I'm back in the land of the living. Probably just a dream, though. I mean, Cas is dead, right?"

"Right…" Dean closed his eyes for a moment, reflecting on what Sam had just told him. Had Cas really appeared to his brother in a dream, to bring him back to life? It sounded ridiculous. But then, the angel had appeared in _his_ dreams on more than one occasion, even if only to deliver vital bits of information. Surely it was possible. Or maybe Cas was alive after all? Quickly Dean tossed that thought aside. For one, presumed dead or not, Castiel had seriously betrayed him, even if it was for the "greater good". And for another, he couldn't bear the disappointment if it was true, and the angel really was gone.

It took Dean a moment to notice that his brother was eyeing him quizzically, and he quickly pushed aside his thoughts. Besides, Sam was safe and sound, so what the fuck did it matter how? He was just so damned grateful to have his brother back. Trying to break the silence, Dean suddenly grinned.

"I don't know about you, but I could go for a cheeseburger right about now."

Sam rolled his eyes playfully. "Of course you do, Dean. Your brother just wakes up from a coma and all you think about is your stomach." But he was smiling. The man had gone to hell and back worrying about him; a cheeseburger was the least he deserved after going through that.

"A man's gotta eat. Want anything? Beats the crap they call food here, that's for sure."

Sam gently punched his brother in the arm. Damn it felt good to be back. Alive, with his brother, and, thankfully, without Lucifer taunting him 24/7. Because Sam remembered everything about Lucifer, his torment while unconscious, how he had been forced to watch Dean first be tortured, and then torture others. He shuddered involuntarily, praying that Dean wouldn't notice. Of course, the older brother did, and shot a puzzled glance, but fortunately left it at that. The last thing Sam wanted to share was how he had been front row center at his brother's torture fest…

"Sure, how about a salad? Might splurge and go for chicken Caesar."

"Geek boy," Dean teased, and headed out in search of his clothes. There was no doubt that the doctors wanted to keep the brothers for observation, but both brothers were tired of endless nights in the hospital. Both would be "checking out" very soon.

"Something else bothers me, too, though," Dean called over his shoulder, as he rummaged through the closets for something to wear. When Walt and Roy took you, I was pretty out of it. Yet I wake up in a hospital. Obviously you weren't around to do the honours, so I wonder who did? A civilian? Wouldn't they have called the cops? Because there were no squad cars when I went back to the hotel, no police tape, nothing."

"Have no idea, man."

Dean shrugged, then let out a triumphant cry as he pulled out his worn jeans. "Bingo."

Xxx

_Walt has gone to his car, Sam Winchester's limp body over his shoulder. The hunter calls for Roy, telling him to get his ass in gear or he'd be goddamn sorry. Roy nods, says he wants to pick up a few things first. Beer, take out, maybe a few actual groceries. Walt begrudgingly agrees, and drives off with Winchester, but not before asking him to "take care of the body."_

_Roy waits until Walt's vehicle is out of sight before he commits to his task. Remembering his late brother, Roy carefully picks up Dean Winchester's unconscious body and carries him to his truck. Winchester is in bad shape, and may die at the hospital, but his death won't be on his watch. After all, he is an older brother too, he knows what it's like…_

_Before he can change is mind, Roy steps on the gas and heads to the local hospital. He has to do this, has to keep at least one last shred of humanity._

_For Jason._

**The End**


End file.
